Flaws of Perfection
by AshenMoon42
Summary: Their lives are just chapter after chapter of misery. Day after day bearing the weight of the world on their shoulders. Remus is a werewolf, Sirius is abused, Peter is a traitor, and James has to hold them all together. An account of all the problems of the Marauders' school years. (Angsty Marauder one-shots)
1. An Absence of Humanity (RL)

**An Absence of Humanity**

 **We can find sorrow in words and in music, but the real pain comes in complete silence.**

 **Basically, it's one of Remus's transformations that show his coping mechanisms, the weight of his burden, and what it means to be a werewolf.**

 **Word count (including A/N): 2228**

 **Written: April-May 2018**

* * *

The roots dug into his side, but the pain was just an unnecessary reminder of what was to come. His feet dragged on the earthy ground, but it was fine. He was early, so he could be as slow as he wanted.

Even at the early hour, Remus Lupin's head throbbed. It was like a hammer clanging against his skull, the sound reverberating through his head. But it wasn't a hammer or a large piece of wood … it wasn't even a frying pan or one of Remus's spell books. It was his heartbeat.

It beat hard and fast, slicing straight through any attempts at contemplation. It could only get worse.

 _Ba-thump._

 _Ba-thump._

 _Ba-thump._

Soon the long tunnel was behind the boy, and he reached the trapdoor, sliding the latch with trembling fingers.

 _Ba-thump._

He got in. The shrieking shack was in tatters after years of use: blood stained the walls and claw marks cruelly blemished the once smooth wood. Just as the scars blemished Remus's skin.

 _Ba-thump._

He was in the next room now - a small corridor. This wasn't as bad. The Wolf knew that this space was long and thin and tight, so the Wolf stayed away.

 _Ba-thump._

He reached the staircase: huge and beautiful. Each step was shallow and comfortable, and it was wide, stretching up towards the heavens.

 _Ba-thump._

Remus started up it, the familiar heavy weight of each step burdening him once again. Last month had been especially bad, but still the wolf had not dared to venture upstairs, with the wards Remus had placed upon it.

 _Ba-thump._

Remus really didn't want the wolf up here.

 _Ba-thump._

He reached the landing in the fourth floor, legs screaming in protest. He stopped to push open the door to yet another corridor.

 _Ba-thump._

Finally at the end room. Remus always locked this room. He didn't want the Wolf to get to _this_ room.

 _Ba-thump._

The room was untouched by everything but time and rats. High, gothic windows ran along one wall, coated in grime; the peeling wallpaper was patterned with swirling shapes; the mouldy carpet was thick and spacious; the worn sofa was a faded shade of warm burgundy.

 _Ba-thump._

In the centre of the room was a grand piano, dark and dusty from years of neglect. Whoever had once lived here had clearly been wealthy: the dining room was grand, the staircase spiralling high to give different floors, and this room just spoke of reverence and majesty.

 _Ba-thump._

They say time destroys everything eventually, but werewolves are much more efficient. Because of a werewolf, Remus Lupin had morphed from a cheerful, happy young lad into a quiet, closed boy. That same bloodthirsty monster had turned Remus's eyes from a clear blue-green to a haunted honey-gold. A different werewolf (one which Remus was _very_ familiar with) had scarred his skin until his back was a network of crisscrossing marks, his right shoulder a mess of marred flesh, and his limbs looked like the well-used scratching post of a particularly ferocious cat.

 _Ba-thump._

Remus tried not to think of things like that. It was hard anyway: his heartbeat was becoming more erratic, and his head ached worse than ever. He had broken into a cold sweat that ran down his face, his neck, his back. Throwing his cloak onto the sofa, he stepped forwards. It was a burden to move his legs, but he did so until he sat in the piano stool.

 _Ba-thump._

Now his thoughts sunk into the past.

 _He was nine. He sat on the stool. It was rather high for him, but several books lay beneath his feet to keep him at the right height._

 _The sheet of music was like a language. If it was, he was fluent in it after years of isolation and time to practise. His fingers lay on the keys, gently caressing each one. They were black and white. If only all the world was like that - most things seemed to be a murky grey in between._

 _His fingers danced to the metronome of his heartbeat, and his mind waltzed with it. Soon enough, the tune was his own and the sheet was forgotten: he played out his soul for the world to hear … but not many knew the language of music. The tune spoke of sorrow and joy, of fear and hope. Each note struck a chord in his heart, resounding through his mind. The music lifted his burden, if only for the duration of the tune. But this was_ his _tune. It could last forever._

 _Without words, without expressions or sign, Remus managed to speak. He spoke of his whole life, laying it out piece by piece … or note by note. All the triumphs, the failures, all the laughs and fears … they poured out of him as his fingers leapt across the piano._

 _For once, without friends and running out of books to read, Remus Lupin was perfectly content and happy. A great weight lifted briefly of his shoulders as he played for hours on end, well into the night._

Of course, this time, fifteen-year-old Remus only had until moonrise to do this, so he sat and he played. He didn't care what he played - it could've been anything. But it was most likely his own tune that he had played all those years ago when he was still lonely and friendless. The tune that bridged the gap of the broken pieces of his mind. It healed his desolate heart and killed his jitters. As he sunk further into the embrace of music, his headache softened and his heartbeat worked for him as a mournful metronome.

Of course, he had to stop soon enough. He had become too engrossed in his melody, and moonrise crept up to him and smothered him, stealing him from his precious music. He stiffened on the stool, and began to change.

First his fingers and toes curled into long claws, his feet squashed and stretched. He bit back a scream.

 _Ba-thump._

His bones stretched painfully and his skin was pulled over the elongated limbs. His clothes were ripped off his thin frame. This time Remus did scream. A scream that cut through the waves of music that remained, that sliced through the air.

 _Ba-thump._

His internal organs shifted and changed inside, and the scream turned into a raw yell, chilling and tortured. It felt like his insides were on fire and being beaten over and over with a club.

 _Ba-thump._

Fur sprouted all over him and he twisted in the piano stool, trying to drag himself away from the instrument.

 _Ba-thump._

The Wolf within him crept towards his larynx and throat - the scream cut off and was replaced by a desperate choking sound. It was as if he was being squeezed by the throat and then as soon as it came, the crushing pressure was released and the scream finished with a howl.

 _Ba-thump._

The howl only became more pronounced and pained as his skull morphed so that he had a long snout. He had the body if of a wolf. But he wasn't yet _the_ Wolf.

 _Ba-thump._

 _Ba-thump._

A silence full of sickening relief.

 _Ba-thump._

 _Ba-thump._

 _Ba-thump._

In a sudden overwhelming rush, there were more anguished howls of pain, but Remus couldn't even feel himself opening his mouth. All he was aware of was pain. Torturous, crushing, shattering pain, like shards of glass were being pushed into his brain, like each of his memories was replaced with swords that turned and killed him from inside out.

 _BA-THUMP BA-THUMP BA-THUMP_

And his heartbeat was like a bird flinging itself at the bars of its cage.

 _BA-THUMP BA-THUMP BA-THUMP_

Loud and desperate.

 _BA-THUMP BA-THUMP BA-THUMP_

Couldn't even think anymore.

 _BA-THUMP BA-THUMP BA-THUMP_

His human mind slipping through fingers like sand.

 _BA-THUMP BA-THUMP BA-THUMP_

And then…

Just with that, the orchestra of pain stilled. The erratic beat of his heart settled. Remus Lupin was gone. The Wolf had come to play.

 _ **A new room. The Wolf knew that. New smells, new objects. First it paced. No prey. No blood. He could smell human, though. The same human that he always smelt. The human that was never there, but always had been, and it confused the Wolf every time.**_

 _ **He threw himself against a wall. And again. And again**_

 _ **He needed to get out. He needed blood and flesh. He wanted to taste human meat.**_

 _ **The Wolf felt no pain. He continued to ram his shoulder into to wall. It wouldn't give, as usual. The hard object in the centre of the room was a strange shape. He smelt human all over it, so yet again he threw himself against one of the legs.**_

 _ **It was sharp at the corner, and the Wolf's muzzle scraped against it, leaving a deep cut. A warm, sticky liquid ran down his snout, over his wet nose and into his mouth. Human blood. The Wolf had human blood.**_

 _ **He went for his shoulder first. The right one was in such a convenient position, so the Wolf gnawed at his own human flesh and snarled in content at the sweet, tangy, metallic taste that ran over his tongue.**_

 _ **He leaped upwards towards the black thing. As high as he could. The surface changed as he stood, as his paws skirted the white things. They made noises. Loud and clear and so very unpleasant. He scrambled to get off, claws scraping the keys as he struggled, until he was finally on solid ground.**_ **Quiet** _ **ground.**_

 _ **He tilted his head and howled at where he knew the moon would be, had he not been in this prison. A howl of triumph, for there was blood on the floorboards, and it tasted very human.**_

 _ **He howled that triumphant howl that echoed throughout the building, carrying to Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, shocking the creatures in the Forbidden Forest and making the humans flinch.**_

When Remus woke, it was early in the morning. He lay on the floor, completely naked and breathing heavily. His right shoulder hurt like hell, but other than that he seemed undamaged. Good. He turned his head, blinking the spurs out of his eyes and looked at the piano. Not too bad. Just scratched up. He sighed in relief.

Pushing himself up very slowly, he lifted the discarded cloak from its place on the sofa and wrapped it around himself.

As a wave of nausea broke over him, he steadied himself on the piano, a few clashing notes escaping the instrument. He looked down and saw that the black and white keys were splashed with blood. The tips of his fingers were yet again marred. After using his claws, his delicate fingers were cut up beyond belief at the tips, and his nails were cracked and bloody.

The red liquid was a great slash across the black and white of the majestic piano. Some had dried from last night - or that morning - and some of the keys were crusted with it.

The shack lay in a silence. Not a pleasant silence … it was the silence that came upon a battlefield after every soldier had been slaughtered; the silence that fell upon a house when one member of the family was gone forever; the silence after a bomb dropped - the silence of sorrow, of mourn, of loss and pain. A silence a world away from the haunting music from only hours before.

Remus Lupin sat on the piano stool and found himself unable to make his fingers dance again. He couldn't immerse himself in the music, sink into the melody.

The silence was loud. It filled the room and it was suffocating and overwhelming and huge. It was so deafening that Remus Lupin fled from the room, ignoring the ache of his shoulder. He sat on the bottom stair of the staircase and let himself drown in the absence of noise. There were no laughs from his friends, no scalding shouts from the professors, no music to wallow in. Remus fell into the void of silence, and although the sun had risen, the dark closed in.

Because there was no cure to lycanthropy. No way to measure silence or pain, and those were the things that dominated the young werewolf's mind. It was perfectly reasonable, Remus assured himself, because he had felt pain that no other Hogwarts student had. Even with three wonderful friends, a fellow prefect and study partner, and some understanding professors, he felt utterly alone. They might know his condition, they might have heard rumors of the extreme pain, but they didn't know it first-hand.

Even with caring friends, Remus Lupin felt more alone than he ever had before. He was without music, without the rejuvenating laughs of friendship, without the crinkling of chocolate wrappers, without even the sound of pages turning in a book. Without anything that made him feel human.

Time destroys everything eventually, but werewolves are much more efficient. They can ruin the lives of others, and always destroy themselves in the end.

 **Next chapter coming soon!**


	2. Respectable (SB)

**Respectable**

 **Right. This is basically some angsty Sirius stuff - mostly focusing on when he left.**

 **Word count (including A/N): 3779**

 **Written: April-May 2018**

 **Published: DAY MONTH YEAR**

 **Sirius stood behind** his younger brother as he opened the door. He hesitated a moment before entering, and when he did it was with caution. He was only eleven, and already hating his own home. No, not his _home_ anymore. Just because he had lived there his whole life didn't mean it was _home._ Hogwarts was his home. 12 Grimmauld Place was his _house._ The place he stayed in summer. The place where his parents were. The place that would soon become his hell.

He went straight to his room. Walburga and Orion Black were nowhere in sight, so he glided up the staircase with grace that only came from years of schooling. Another thing he questioned now: why would a boy need schooling to walk, to eat, to even _speak_ in a respectable way? The Noble and most Ancient House of Black needed a _respectable_ heir. Not one with morals or with kindness. Not one with sanity. The Noble and most Ancient House of Black needed a _respectable_ heir: someone who wasn't any different from those before him, who would follow his superiors without question, who would obey and keep his mouth shut. Someone who was just another Black; another pale, emotionless face on another Slytherin green portrait. Another set of clouded silver grey eyes. Another hollow shell like a mask for his family to hide behind. A _respectable_ mask.

In his room now, Sirius Black looked around him at the dark, blank room. So boring. So _respectable._ Fishing something out of his trunk, he felt a kind of satisfaction. A red Gryffindor banner smuggled from the dormitory. With a giddy power controlling his mind, he hung it from a hook on the wall. A quick permanent sticking charm that he had learnt (the Trace couldn't breach the wards), and it was there forever. _Forever unrespectable_. That would show his pureblood, Slytherin family.

It looked so alien in the black-and-green room. The Black heir stood back to admire his handiwork, a little laugh escaping through his soft pink lips. Rebellion was rare in his family, treated like an unforgivable crime, just as uniqueness, emotion and freedom were. He'd get a beating for this. But again that giddy triumph swelled in his heart. He would always be different. He would never belong here. The Marauders were his family now.

* * *

 **At fourteen,** Sirius was already tall and handsome. His curly black hair framed his face, and his steel grey eyes were warm, unlike the almost identical ones that graced his mother. The ones he stared into now.

"ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT YOUR FRIEND IS A MUDBLOOD?" She screamed like this often, and many had commented on her powerful set of lungs.

"No, mother. I'm _not_ telling you. You found out for yourself when you took those letters. Do you mind giving them back now, please?" Sirius, used to her thunderous voice, just winced at the volume and spoke smoothly.

"IT'S BAD ENOUGH THAT LUPIN BOY IS A HALF BLOOD, BUT ONE OF YOUR GRYFFINDOR ASSOCIATES IS A DIRTY _MUDBLOOD?"_

"I've said this before, mother. It's muggleborn, not mudblood."

"SIRIUS BLACK, YOU KEEP AWAY FROM MUDBLOODS, UNDERSTAND? THEY ARE LOWER THAN US - THEY DON'T DESERVE TO _LICK OUR BOOTS!_ A DISGRACE TO WIZARDKIND! THEY TAINT OUR BLOOD AND DESTROY OUR CULTURE!"

Sirius's voice grew cold, his head throbbing with rage. "Mother, they are no lower than us. Their blood is not _dirty,_ it is just like ours. Their magic is not impure, it is just as potent as our own. If _anyone_ is a disgrace to our kind, it is people like you, mother. As you constantly remind me, I am not a _true_ Black. And you know what? I'm happy. I'm glad I am not like you. I'm a blood traitor and I am proud of it."

 _Slap._

There was a stinging burst of pain as a firm hand hit Sirius's left cheek. His head snapped right and he stumbled back a step.

Walburga's yell turned to an icy hiss. "I know you don't _want_ to be a Black, Sirius. But you are part of the family. There is no denying that."

Sirius gritted his teeth, prepared for whatever punishment his next words would cause him. He spoke with no emotion. No regret. "But there is, mother. I'm not a _true_ Black, as you say. James, Remus and Peter are my family. _You_ are just my relatives."

Walburga froze. The room turned silent as she processed his words. A cold, clammy hand clenched around her heart. Her head felt like it held the weight of all her ancestors.

 _Slap._

 _Slap._

 _Slap._

Tears sprung in both sets of steel eyes. One from pain and anger. The other from sadness, disappointment, regret.

She had wanted a strong son. Here she had one, but not a _respectable_ Slytherin or a pompous pureblood. Here she had a stubborn Gryffindor.

She had wanted a loyal son. Here she had one, but not loyal to the Noble and most Ancient House of Black. No, he was loyal to his blood traitor Gryffindor friends.

She had wanted a respectable son. Here she had one, but not emotionless and cold and so very _Black_ son. She had a son who respected others. Who respected purebloods and halfbloods and mudbloods alike.

She had always loved Sirius Black. She had shouted. She had screamed and raged. She had hit him with hand and belt. But she had wanted a cold, strong, _Slytherin_ son. Here she had a passionate, chivalrous, respecting, Gryffindor, so very _blood traitor_ son.

But however Sirius had turned out, however much she hurt him, she loved him, for he was her son. They shared the Black blood that ran through their veins, and the steel Black eyes and the curly black Black hair. They shared a strong set of lungs and stubbornness and loyalty and grace and strength and they were both _respectable._ They were both Blacks. So alike. Both considered it their duty to be the centre of attention; the loudest in the room. Neither followed orders particularly well, and preferred to issue them. So similar, yet they clashed at every point, every opinion.

And to hear Sirius say that, about family, or lack of it ... that ripped straight through her heart. Not a messy rip. A very straight, clean, proper, _respectable_ rip, like the cold Black she was. Like what her eldest son wasn't.

According to ancient vows, he would be disowned before he turned seventeen. He would be out of the house and burnt off the tapestry. Walburga's precious son would be hers no longer. He'd be nothing but a burnt patch on a mouldy tapestry. Gone forever.

She watched Sirius Black leave the room towards his Gryffindor-clad bedroom. He walked up the staircase with an elegant grace. Not a _respectable_ grace. It was a grace that spoke of freedom, passion and of joy. Three things the Noble and most Ancient House of Black saw to be the traits of betrayal. Walburga Black shook her head, then rested it on the table and wept.

* * *

 **Sirius was sixteen** , now. Years as beater on the quidditch team had amounted to something, so now Sirius was tall and strong.

It was his mother's birthday. Aunts and uncles, cousins … torture.

Cygnus and Druella sat either side of Walburga. Orion sat to Druella's right, and Sirius to his right. Unfortunately, they had brought Bellatrix and Narcissa with them.

Narcissa was very cold. Until she had been engaged to Lucius Malfoy, her parents had considered the possibility of her being wed to Sirius, her own cousin. At the time, to Sirius, that had been the most terrifying thought ever to have crossed his ten-year-old mind. For she really was cold. She sat there, her back ramrod straight and her lips pursed into a shrewd, forced smile. The lips themselves were pink, but Sirius wouldn't be surprised if their natural hue was blue, as if frozen. Her blonde hair was tied into a ruthless bun at the back of her head. Her skin was pale as death, and her eyes were the usual Black grey.

If Narcissa was cold, Bellatrix was a raging fire. But not a warm, comforting fire. It was the fire that destroyed towns, that burnt through forest and building alike. The fire that scorched land and caused drought, disaster and death. Her hair was wild, rather like Walburga's, and her eyes were more like the blade of knife than anything else. Her lips were painted blood red, and she was pale like her sister. She let her emotions run wild - she told of her allegiance to the Dark Lord to all who would listen. Her recent marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange had only cut the mark deeper, ensuring that her opinions were set in stone: 'mudbloods' were a disgrace, purebloods were the only rightful rulers.

Sirius stared at the space next to him. The chair Andromeda usually occupied. But she had gone and married a muggleborn, so was disowned. Sirius would likely never see her again. He also realised that he would most likely go down the same path. He was on the way to being thrown out, and now he knew what his favorite cousin had been through, his heart ached even more. He dearly wanted to speak with her again. She had been the only one to understand his pain. She had been the same as him: she wanted to be different after realising that her family had got it all wrong, and she'd been beaten at even the tiniest spark of rebellion she showed. Just like Sirius.

But Regulus sat in that chair now, rather than the one next to Bellatrix - because no-one wanted to sit with Bella - and he looked at his older brother, confused. Regulus noticed that Sirius was twitchy … he'd been jumpy all holiday. But why? Why was Sirius so worried on his mother's Birthday?

Walburga had received her gifts and they tucked in. Pork. Normally Sirius would tuck in eagerly, but with Bellatrix so near, that was difficult. Her stare was piercing, and she wore that wicked grin on her face.

"I have risen in the ranks," she started, her voice mocking in a way that told everyone that she was so much more important than them.

"Oh, really?" asked Orion, "How is it?" His tone was one of polite interest, but even he - her uncle - was nervous around the woman.

She laughed a little. It was a new laugh. It used to be happy, almost warm when she was a child. Now it was cold and hollow. "We are a huge success. Rodolphus and I are quite important now."

Sirius faked interest. "So I guess you're muggle-killing idiots instead of just idiots, now?"

"Shut up, blood traitor. I'm surprised you're not off the tapestry already!" she said frostily.

Sirius scowled, "I may be a blood traitor but at least I am not a murderer."

"Be quiet Sirius." Walburga hissed, "don't make matters worse for yourself."

"Worse? How can it get any worse? I'm in a family full of pureblood supremacist lunatics! It can't get much worse."

"You have a tricky one there, Walburga," Cygnus drawled, "just disown him as soon as possible, I say."

"Yes," snarled Druella, who had a grudge on her sister-in-law, "You've got something wrong there."

"You need to beat him more, sister," Cygnus continued in his haughty tone. "I'm happy to help out." Sirius longed to speak, but knew he shouldn't - he could yell at Bellatrix, but an argument with the adults was _not_ something he wanted to be included in. It would surely end in some painful way like last year had.

So he sat like a good little pureblood heir, watching as people argued about how difficult he was.

He sat as he had been taught - back straight, head up, chin tilted slightly upwards. Sliding on his mask, he turned from Sirius Black the cheerful Gryffindor to Sirius Black the cold pureblood. All emotions pushed from his face, he fumed inside. The only way to tell was by his eyes. They grew piercing and sharp in his anger, giving the impression of a particularly angry fire.

When everyone had finished eating, the conversation restarted again, "Sirius, what are your main subjects for NEWTs next year?" Druella asked.

Sirius smiled - finally a chance to speak his mind. But the smile was still cold, because his mask was on, and he could not allow it to slip much further than it had already.

"Well, in OWLs I got Os in three subjects - Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies…" Sirius didn't need to continue.

"MUGGLE STUDIES?" Cygnus bellowed. It seemed he shared the same set of lungs as his sister. "A BLACK STUDYING _MUGGLES_? WHO WOULD EVER STUDY THAT SCUM?"

"Oh, lots of people. Everyone who doesn't go around killing them, Uncle." Sirius said nonchalantly.

"And Defence Against the Dark Arts? We _are_ the Dark Arts!" Bellatrix growled.

"Yes: I need to find _some_ way to get you killed." he shrugged.

 _Slap._

There it came again. The slap that had graced his ears so many times. There was, yet again, a burning in his cheek as his head snapped to the right. Sirius scowled as his father stood.

"Sirius Black, the Dark Lord is our master and our saviour. What he is doing is _right._ Don't say stupid things like that." While Walburga Black shouted and screamed at every opportunity, Orion was icily calm. His eyes were a darker, stormy grey that seemed to reach into the soul and split apart memories like a dagger to flesh. He always seemed to know whatever Sirius was thinking, and was presumed to be proficient in Legilimency.

Sirius knew he shouldn't go further. "Yes sir."

"Go upstairs. We don't want to speak with blood traitors." he still talked with that voice, eerily calm.

"Yes sir." and with that, Sirius traipsed upstairs, chin raised defiantly, walking with that ever-so-respectable grace.

 _SB_

It all happened when the guests were gone. The last string of icy chatter was cut as the heavy door slammed shut, leaving the house in a gloomy silence. The air seemed damp … maybe it was the sweat that trickled down Sirius's neck; maybe it was the blood that would be spilled; maybe it was from Regulus's tears that would prick his eyes later that night. But the air was damp, and Sirius's throat was dry. He knew exactly what was coming.

" _Sirius_!" came that call. The same call as last time, and the time before, and long before that. But the call struck a foreboding chord in Sirius's heart.

He trailed down the staircase as slowly as possible, pausing before the door to the dining room. He pushed it open with long, slender fingers.

Before Sirius even knew what was happening, there came a great weight below his eye. He fell back, but not before pain flared in his stomach from a sharp kick. A punch to his ribcage caused dizzying pain - surely something cracked there - and soon enough Sirius was against the wall on the floor.

"How dare you disgrace our family." A flat, cold voice. Orion.

A blow to the head: Sirius cried out. His vision blurred at the edges.

"You _stupid-"_

Kick to the chest.

"- _idiotic-"_

Another punch. Same eye. Yellow spots. Dizzy. Room spun. Round and round and round and round and round and r-

"- _BLOOD TRAITOR!"_

A final kick. Where? Don't know. Pain. _Pain. PAIN._ Overwhelming, all-consuming _pain._ It ate at his stomach, his chest, his face. Maybe he screamed. It felt like he was being squeezed round the middle.

"Up."

Sirius couldn't think. His father's shoes were surprisingly hard. He did exactly what was commanded, legs protesting.

"Shirt off and turn around."

And then Orion was holding a belt and it lashed at his heir's back like tongues of fire. It felt like his back was the racecourse for a thousand horses. The belt hit his skin again and again like thundering hooves and the sound of a tremendous crowd roared in Sirius's ears. And it seemed to last for years. Years and years and years.

And it mounted up, and his vision still blurred as if a cloud was before it; his head throbbed like a hammer was beating it into shape; his body ached as if he carried the weight of the world; the tongues of fire still burnt his back as the race continued.

And then it just stopped. And there was an angry roar and it wasn't his own. Orion Black was furious. The cold, emotionless, icily calm father had flipped. " _CRUCIO!"_ he roared.

Yet again, Sirius screamed. His head was on fire now - never mind his back anymore - and his mind seemed like it would split in two and he clutched at his hair, yelling and howling and screaming for it to stop.

After what seemed like eternity, his father lifted the curse. A film of relief, of a dullness and muted pain settled over Sirius. "Leave." Orion croaked. "Just go."

Sirius scrambled for his shirt and ran out the door. He tried to control his breathing as he stepped up the stairs. The pain still covered him like a blanket, but his legs had hardly been touched, and he went up the stairs slowly.

"Sirius?" came a soft voice. Soft like feather duvets and fluffy clouds. Soft and kind, worried.

Sirius turned to Regulus, who was leaning out of his door.

"Are you alright?" his little brother asked.

Sirius paused. His head ached and it felt like a hammer was thundering down in his head. "Yes," he said, "Yes, I'm just great." But his throat was raw from his yelling and screaming, so it came out as a pathetic rasp. "I'm fine."

Regulus looked at his brother, feeling pain in his own heart. How could he support parents like these? Who beat Sirius just for being who he is? Sirius had never really been Regulus's friend, but he'd always been there: ready to take the blame when he got in trouble, to ease his pain when it didn't work.

But Sirius just smiled, and looked up at Regulus, "Support your parents, but … just know that it's wrong. You need to stay on their side. Just remember the time they beat your brother out of the family and think about who is right."

Then Sirius continued to his own room without the usual aristocratic grace. Funny how the people who try to make you respectable manage to be the ones to strip the dignity away in great big folds.

Still stiff, Sirius reached his room, packed, and flew out the window on his new Nimbus 1800.

With that, Sirius Orion Black was disowned, leaving another burnt hole on the tapestry.

 _SB_

Remus Lupin lived just outside of London in a small house with a green door. Sirius knocked firmly, clutching his aching side with his other hand.

It took a few seconds for the door to open. Remus stood there, looking rather worn, covered in new scars from the full moon three nights before. "Sirius?" he said in disbelief.

"Hello," Sirius croaked. "Can I come in?"

After taking Sirius's trunk upstairs, Remus returned to the hallway to find Sirius slumped at the base of the wall.

Remus just looked at his friend, "What happened? Come on, let me sort out those bruises."

Five minutes later, Remus Lupin stared at Sirius's bare back. It was a network of angry red welts and long crisscrossing scars. They ran from neck to waist, from shoulder to hip, and were surely the marks of a belt. They cut deep, blemishing what had been smooth skin, showing Remus the truth.

He'd suspected for years.

" _Sirius? Are you alright?" the twelve-year-old werewolf asked his friend._

" _Yes … yes, I'm just great … I'm fine." Sirius fingered a spot just below his eye._

" _Don't you want to go home? You can see your family again. James has invited us all around to his - it'll be great!"_

" _Home? Hogwarts is my home. Family?_ You _are my family, Remus. You and the rest of the Marauders."_

 _They sat the rest of the train ride in stony silence, three of the group examining the fourth, who stared out of the window._

 _The platform was busy, like last year, and the four looked around for parents._

 _A small, joyful woman and a tall, smiling man were James's parents; a rather broad man was Peter's uncle; a motherly woman who looked rather worn out was Remus's mother. Walburga and Orion Black stood at the back, waiting for Sirius to go to them._

 _Remus listened to the Blacks as his mother talked to Mrs. Potter._

" _Sirius." Orion said gruffly._

" _Hello, sir." Sirius seemed to change in an instant from a crazy boy to a quiet one. He spoke more formally, almost tentatively, and the transformation was astounding. His back was suddenly ramrod straight, his chin tilted upwards, and his eyes grew sharp. His face held no emotion … it was as if the boy was wearing a mask._

" _Where's Regulus?" hissed Walburga._

" _I don't know, mother. Probably with his slimy Slytherin friends."_

" _Just because your younger brother did something you_ failed _to do doesn't mean you have to hate him for it. The truth is, Regulus is a better son than you will ever be, so act your age and become a more respectable heir." Walburga snapped._

 _Regulus came a minute later, and the Black parents turned to their house elf. "Get the bags. Let's get home then. How was your first year, Regulus?"_

Of _course_ they hit him. It had been obvious from the start … that strange transformation in Sirius's behaviour should have shown that. Sirius only went home for the Christmas and Easter holidays if his parents requested it, and when he did, he returned as a quieter, stiffer boy.

It was a cruel twist that his parents had named him Sirius, Remus reflected. Because Sirius was the dog star: Orion's dog, and Orion treated him worse than a he would a hound. Many of the Blacks were named after stars, and it certainly made sense for Sirius to be the only one to be unique. Sirius is the brightest star in the Earth's night sky, and certainly the best of his family.

And as Remus helped his friend onto the bed, he sighed. However funny and popular, Sirius Black was halfway to being a being a broken wreck already.

 **END**

* * *

Next chapter soon. Peter next ... requests welcome for any other less obvious problems that any of the Marauders face.


	3. Importance (PP)

**Importance**

 **Well, here's the third chapter. Peter now.**

 **Thank you for favoriting and following, and thanks for the lovely review from Hermione Lyra Malfoy-Riddle. I really appreciate your feedback.**

 **Enjoy!**

Peter was terrified. His mother had told him about Hogwarts. A thousand children, she'd said. Shared dormitories. Lots and lots of people. Of course he'd enjoy learning about how to use magic. Maybe he'd be good. Maybe his mother would finally appreciate him as much as she did Joseph, his handsome and skilled older brother. But the _people_. He'd heard stories about seventh years who would torture the new students. He'd heard tales about the Death Eater Slytherins, who would leave school and immediately join _him._

For now, as he thought and worried, he wandered away from their cosy cottage. As the lights (filtered pink through the frilled curtains) faded away, Peter sighed.

He was small. He'd surely be the smallest in the year, and that meant the smallest in the school. The older students could simply stand over him to make him cower in fear. He could imagine them, as tall as the roof of the buildings, towering over him, jeering and laughing.

He was mousy and pathetic, so they could make him cry by only a few weak jabs about his looks or his family. He could imagine them sniggering to themselves. _Poor, pathetic Peter Pettigrew,_ They'd laugh. _With ugly little eyes and goofy teeth!_

He was jumpy and terrified of everything, so they'd scare him. He'd be standing, alone and friendless as they jumped him and laugh when he yelped in fear. And as they tormented him, nobody would think to help the ugly, pathetic little Peter, a tiny first year who looked like a mouse.

Peter remembered the muggle school he had attended. Most wizard parents hired tutors or homeschooled their children, but Peter's mother didn't have the time and patience to teach Peter. No, not Peter, who was slow and dumb.

 _P-peter P-p-pettigrew. Yes, that's your name, you know. Can you spell it, or can't your little brain handle that?_ And they would giggle when he answered wrong in class, so Peter stopped answering at all.

 _Why are you alone, Peter? Where are your friends, Peter? Oh right. Silly me: I forgot. You have none!_ Because who would want to be friends with a small boy with a mousy face and pathetic excuses, who was scared of his own shadow and couldn't keep up in class, who had no friends, and lived in a muggle town? Whose mother had forbid him from playing quidditch. Who knew no magic yet. Who … who was just _nothing._ Not even a nobody. That would mean he'd be ignored - Peter would be the ridiculous squib who thought he could play wizard.

* * *

Peter held his head in his hands. A seventh year, but the most stupid seventeen-year-old ever to have walked the earth. Who still got lost, even with popular friends, mature age and increasing ability in Potions, Transfiguration and Herbology.

He stood from his seat in a hidden passageway and walked into the corridor. Even the walls hated him. After seven years, he still got lost in the eternal corridors that all looked the same. Beige walls and wood planked floors. Suits of armour, statues, paintings, tapestries … they all looked the same. He wandered along - surely he'd come across something familiar soon - then stopped dead in his tracks. Along the corridor were Avery and Mulciber. Peter's personal tormentors.

The small Gryffindor backed up and tried to get away without being noticed, but Mulciber called out, "Where you going, Rat Face?"

"To-to the G-gryffindor common room. That … that's all."

"Really? That's this way." Mulciber pointed behind him.

Avery snickered, "Still get lost, Pettigrew? I suppose your brain can't really keep hold of the castle you've only lived in for seven years."

"Come on, Peter. Just follow us and we'll help with your little predicament." Mulciber was smirking wider now.

Peter stood, confused. Why did they want _him_ to follow them? "M-m-me?" he stammered.

"P-peter P-p-pettigrew. Yes, that's your name, you know. Can you spell it, or can't your little brain handle that?"

"Poor _,_ pathetic Peter Pettigrew," Avery laughed, "With ugly little eyes and goofy teeth!"

"Nobody to help you now Peter. Where are your friends, you little worm? They forgot you? Or did they never care about you at all?"

"Come, Peter. We can be your friends if you want. We have an offer for you."

And the two Slytherins walked, clearly expecting Peter to follow. James, Sirius and Remus were out. It was the full moon, after all. Peter had a headache, so had opted to stay in the castle. The other three had shrugged and walked off, laughing about something Sirius had said. They hadn't looked back. After all, no-one cared about ugly, pathetic little Peter Pettigrew.

Feeling more alone than he ever had, Peter sought the camaraderie that he had felt illusions of when he was younger and more naïve. He sought the friendship he'd never really had, the equality he'd never been treated with. He wanted attention and appreciation. He longed for just a taste of all the things he'd never known, and at that moment, Avery and Mulciber seemed to be giving it to him.

He didn't even have to think. They offered a position. An important one, they insisted. A spy. Yes. Yes, of course. He'd spy on Sirius Black, for all his mocking jokes, who had never welcomed him from the beginning and never took Peter seriously. And Remus Lupin, who'd tutored Peter as if he was a younger child, as if he was unable to understand or simply unable to do anything at all. He'd spy on James Potter, who Peter had idolised: smart, funny, handsome, popular. James Potter, the leader of the Marauders, the so-called 'friends'. James Potter, who never really valued Peter Pettigrew. After all, who did? He was unnoticeable and quiet, dumb and slow. Who would think _he_ could be a spy? He didn't need friends. Now … well, he had a job now. He was vital, they'd said. He was needed for big things, and once they won the war, he'd be a hero. They'd told him how he'd aid the Dark Lord, a great man. They described how much power he could hold. They spoke of riches, and appreciation, and a place. An _important_ one. They'd said that lots of times. A better place than stupid Dumbledore could give him. A better place than the stupid Gryffindors could give him. A better place, even, that the _Marauders_ offered. In a haze, Peter only noticed certain words. But they were good words. Hero. Valuable. _Very_ important. Appreciated. A place position. Value. Power. _Importance._

Yes, Peter was perfect for it, and _then_ he'd be valued. _Then_ he'd be appreciated. _Then_ he'd be important. There was no denying it, he'd succeed. After all, his animagus was small and sneaky. And as he walked back, now knowing the way to the common room, he smiled, savouring the sweet taste of revenge on his tongue.


	4. Stress and Scaffolding (JP)

**James is here! I hope you enjoy another chapter. I certainly enjoy writing them, and reading the tasty reviews (*hint, hint*)! Please tell me what you think - good, bad, somewhere in between? Why?**

 **Thank you all for your previous reviews - they've been brilliantly motivating.**

 **Okay, next chapter we'll return to our angsty Remus and his failed love life! Any further chapter ideas? I'm open to all suggestions (as long as they're focused on the unhappy things in the Marauders' lives)!**

 **This is for you, my amazing readers!**

James knew they weren't quite normal. None of them were quite right. Each had their own issues, their own secrets that they couldn't - or wouldn't - tell. Each was a little broken in their own way.

He started with the obvious. Every month, screams and howls echoed around the grounds of Hogwarts and the streets of Hogsmeade. Tortured sounds that shook James to the bone. Maybe it wouldn't have shaken him usually, but it was different. Those howls were made by his friend, Remus Lupin, as he tore himself apart.

 _Three of the four huddled around the open window._

" _Any moment now," Sirius hissed. A breeze wandered through the gap and the chilly night air blew across the room._

 _There was a tense silence. This could answer all their questions. It could confirm their suspicions … it could confirm their fears. It couldn't be true. Not Remus Lupin, who aided everyone with their Defence Against the Dark Arts homework. Not Remus Lupin who always seemed so fragile and ill. Not Remus Lupin, the brain of all their experiments, their pranks. Remus Lupin … the werewolf. It seemed so wrong even to think of it. That James slept in the same room as a werewolf. That he shared lessons with one. That he had stayed in the house of a werewolf in the holidays._

 _But there it was. The full moon, round and pale. It seemed to be watching, like a great big eye, laughing at the horrors that were to come that night. And the three of them just sat, staring._

 _Then the screams came. It was impossible to tell who it was: pain mangles voices beyond recognition. But they knew. The screams were high, but not girly, and loud but as if from far off. They hardly reached the high window at all._

 _It lasted for about a minute, and then there was a tense silence. All fell under the spell of anxiety, and then, starting as quickly as the screams ended, came the howls. Unmistakably the howls of a wolf._

 _James, Sirius and Peter were frozen for a moment until Sirius closed the window hurriedly with a startling BANG that woke them from their reverie._

 _It was a fact. Remus Lupin was a werewolf._

And there it was. One of four confirmed to be different. But back in first year, more than a year before that was Peter.

 _The trio of friends walked down the corridor. Remus was looking a lot healthier than he had the day before, Sirius seemed smug about something, and James strolled between them, happy that their first month at the school had been a success._

 _They were in the dungeons, having just finished potions, as Sirius spoke. "You know what?" there was no answer so he continued. "I think we should break into the Slytherin common room tonight."_

 _Remus choked. "What?"_

 _James paused for a moment. "As revenge. Of course! Why didn't I think of it before? We can wreak all sorts of havoc in there. We should scout out first, though. Make sure it's safe."_

" _But-" Remus started._

" _Yeah. Now?"_

" _Now."_

 _So they set off back towards the dungeons. Sirius, knowing all the details, led the way. Remus trailed behind, more cautious._

 _They heard voices. Coming from just around the corner. They seemed quite deep, so probably older students. It consisted of jeering, laughing and a malevolent sounding undertone, like threats were being made._

 _They looked at each other, uncertain now. However much James taunted and joked about the Slytherins, he really didn't want to get into a fight with seventh years. They hardly knew any spells, after all._

 _But now there was another voice, wavering and high. It begged, then cried out. They exchanged another look, the rounded the corner._

 _A group of fourth years were surrounding someone. Remus, being the best at spells, shot off the first hex, with James and Sirius following with more simple jinxes and hexes._

 _As the Slytherins turned, it all descended into chaos. They broke apart, and all five of the Slytherin fourth years (which included Sirius's cousin, Narcissa) started fighting back. In mere seconds, one Slytherin and two of the Gryffindors were on the ground. James was left standing with three girls and a massive boy before him._

 _And all of a sudden Narcissa shrieked. A stinging spell had hit her shoulder, and she dropped her wand. Behind her, Peter gaped in surprise._

" _I did it." He whispered, "I did it."_

 _And that gave Sirius and Remus the time they needed. In seconds, the two boys had joined James, and it was the three of them again … plus Peter. Narcissa was still clutching at her stung leg while the Slytherin boy moaned from his spot on the floor._

" _Expelliarmus!" James yelled. It was a spell his father had taught him even before he went to Hogwarts, and it was spoken with such confidence and strength that all four Slytherin wands flew from their hands and down the long flight of stairs behind them. They stared at James in shock, then ran for their wands, one boy helping Narcissa up, leaving the last Slytherin boy alone on the ground._

 _The four Gryffindor first years looked at each other with uncertainty._

" _Did we just…" Peter began._

 _Sirius barked out a laugh. "We just beat five fourth years. Including Cissy."_

And so Peter became one of them, and he was safe from the Slytherins.

It took many, many years for the last secret to spill.

 _Sirius wasn't acting quite right. He'd come back on the train with them as usual, but had been deep in thought and slightly detached the entire time. He kept staring out the window almost shocked, as if he couldn't quite believe he was on the train at all._

 _He had eaten like a wild animal at the feast, gulping his food down as if he hadn't eaten for days._

 _And when they returned to the dormitories … he hadn't cracked a joke, or suggested planning another prank. He hadn't even stayed up to ask about their holidays. He trod dejectedly into the room._

" _What's up with you, Sirius?" James had asked, "Why couldn't you come over to my house this year? You never answered my letters."_

 _Sirius had shrugged._ Shrugged.

 _Then he'd climbed into bed, pulling the hangings shut to get changed._

 _James bugged him again. "Since when were you shy? You turn into a werewolf over the holidays?"_

 _Remus growled and Sirius didn't reply. The covers didn't even move around his bed._

 _The next morning, Remus had taken Peter to the library for some last-minute homework help. James showered, then went back into the dorm._

 _Sirius was facing the other way, in the process of getting changed._

 _James just stopped and stared. Across his back there were long, thin bruises like purple fingers reaching across him. Red welts marred his skin, and he noticed some dried blood by his hip. They were the marks of a whip, very careful marks so that most of it wouldn't draw blood and potentially scar._

" _Sirius…" James choked out._

 _As he turned, Sirius Black looked like a rabbit in the headlights. "I … what?"_

" _Your back."_

" _It's nothing. I … I fell into a bush."_

" _And got whip marks?"_

" _James, please … you can't tell anyone."_

 _James just stared in shock. "What? They are hurting you, Sirius! We can get them sent to Azkaban for this! You can live with me … Sirius why didn't you tell me? Why won't you tell anyone?"_

" _Because it won't work! It's not just me, you know. All members of dark pureblood houses - and the ministry know. They know and they turn a blind eye, because my parents and all the other parents are powerful people. And if I told …" Sirius trailed off, shaking his head._

" _If you told then the ministry would ignore it and your parents will beat you harder."_

 _And then he wept. Fifteen-year-old Sirius Black sat on his bed, bruises in full display, and broke down. Tears streamed down his face, and that hit something in James' mind too._

 _He promised himself to help. To help with all his heart and mind and soul._

 _Sirius left home that year. He turned up on James' doorstep, led by a solemn Remus Lupin, with blood covering his chest and back, and he was shaking and pale and slightly unhinged. In seconds he was part of their family._

 _No, he wasn't a Black, though he still bore their name. He was Sirius, who lived with the Potters and whose family were his closest friends._

James sat alone in the dormitory. It was a Hogsmeade weekend, so Sirius had taken Marlene, and Remus had _finally_ accepted that he was good enough for Dorcas Meadowes, and even _Peter_ had taken a Ravenclaw girl from the year below.

James had asked Lily Evans. And been rejected. Yet again.

The stress was getting to him. He was frantically practising his animagus transformation for his second full moon. He was constantly having to scare away Slytherins for Peter, who was still victim to bullying in sixth year. He had to cheer Sirius up every time a new howler or ominous letter showed up. And his parents … he was scheduled to miss a day of school later that week to visit his mother, who had dragonpox.

James had no time to clear his head, what with Quidditch and approaching exams. Mountains of homework lay beneath his bed, unfinished.

And James just sat, breathing as normally as he could. How was he going to survive NEWTs if he was struggling with sixth year exams? How could he captain a Quidditch team if he had no time to play? How could he be a friend if he had everything else to think about?

 _Remus_ helped everyone with homework.

 _Sirius_ kept their spirits up.

 _Peter_ reminded them when to do what.

James? He did nothing. Nothing at all, and now he sat with his head in his hands as the neglected duties piled up. Whatever he thought of, they sat, dark and malevolent worries at the back of his mind, a throbbing pulse at the base of his skull, steadily growing faster and more insistent the more he thought about it all.

His mother was dying and his father was old and he was the only one there to care for them. Sirius was growing more anxious about the situation concerning his recent disownment and he had no family there by his side. The nights were getting longer, and each full moon was worse than the last - Remus felt he had nobody to confide in. Avery and Mulciber were becoming more daring by the day, and Peter had no defence. Homework was building higher as the teachers expected more of the older students. Lily was not so much a prize any more - James felt something, a type of love, he guessed, a love she didn't return. As captain, Quidditch was more about the organisation and less about the game.

James … he didn't know what to do. He'd been told a hundred times that it _wasn't his responsibility,_ that they could cope. But seeing them scared, or injured, or ill, or struggling through life struck a chord in James. He had to help them. That's what friends are for.

* * *

He passed in the end. The exams. He passed with flying colours. His homework was completed, and many Quidditch matches were won, and he'd become Lily's friend. _Friend._ His animagus transformation was perfect, and Avery wouldn't be out of the hospital wing for some while, and Sirius had burnt his most recent letter without reading it. And even though Mrs Potter's condition was steadily worsening, spreading now to his father, James felt a great weight had lifted.

Remus had helped him revise and complete homework. He was very insistent that animagus transformation practise be less frequent as exams approached.

Sirius had ensured his that everything was fine. All the legal parts of his disownment were sorted and he was happy to pull further away from such horrible people. He had also given James encouragement to be a bit nicer to Lily.

Peter told him either not to bother with protecting him, or to simply put the bullies out of action for a while. He'd be fine, he said. James, needing something (or someone) to relieve stress with, had taken the latter suggestion.

Because _that's_ what friends were for. Not for worrying, but for easing worry. Not for stressing, but for help. For generous offers and for kind acts and for a good laugh. They were the support he needed, the scaffolding of his life, the pillars that held up his thought. And _t_ _hat's_ true friendship.


	5. A Monster's Heart (RL)

**Hi! Quite a quick update this time. This is a little short, but I think I like it that way. Enjoy (tell me what you think in a review because that would be nice)!**

 **Monster's heart.**

Remus sighed and looked out at the snow. It gleamed crispy white and was surely soft and thick. He wouldn't know. He wasn't allowed. His injuries were worse this month. Winter nights were long, and James and Sirius had both gotten a detention, and Peter hadn't wanted to be alone with the Wolf. So the Wolf, in a frenzied search for the playful black dog and the proud stag and the little mouse, had beat against the walls and ripped at its chest and arms and legs … even, to an extent, its own face.

Remus sat alone. Now his chest had a tear across it. Another chunk had been pulled from his arm. deep gashed ran across his leg, dangerously close to the major artery that was situated there. His face had a new scar - long and noticeable and right across his nose.

It was a Hogsmeade weekend. James was taking Lily on their first date, which he _obviously_ couldn't miss, and Sirius didn't want to attract attention by staying - he was off with Marlene. again. Even Peter had tagged along, asking a chatty Hufflepuff girl called Bertha Jorkins if she wanted to accompany him. They were all lost in love and had no time for Remus.

Not Remus, who had only had his bones cracked one by one last night.

Not Remus, who had only ripped himself apart last night.

Not Remus, who was now cold and ill, as of last night.

Cracked bones and ripped flesh and illness because he'd been _left_ by those friends. And now they'd left him again.

He was even more sore ever since Dorcas Meadowes had subtly hinted her interest. She'd wondered if they wanted to go to the Three Broomsticks together. She had always been his crush, and was kind and quirky and pretty. Remus wanted to say yes. He wanted ever so much to look into her chocolate eyes and say yes, but he couldn't.

The full moon was the night before, and he knew that he'd be terribly injured. She didn't want a pale sickly boy to drink with her. She didn't want to date someone with a new scar across their nose. She didn't want to be seen with someone like Remus.

Why the nose? The most obvious place, in the centre of his face. So _noticeable_.

Even Dorcas Meadowes, who had campaigned for vampire rights the year before, wouldn't like to date a werewolf. Not a werewolf.

They were violent, with a thirst for human blood. They were monsters, proper monsters who killed or turned people to be their own like they were a deadly virus. A virus for which the symptoms were pain and scorn and ridicule. Even Dorcas Meadowes couldn't stand that.

Even if the Hogsmeade weekend hadn't landed on that day, even if they had gone on a date, she'd soon push away. She'd find out and she'd yell and scream and hate him. She'd hate him ever so much. Just like the other friends.

Sirius and James and Peter didn't count. That was _different_. Remus didn't know why, but it was. There didn't have to be a reason - they were _different._ And no-one else was. No-one else could accept a … a creature like him as a friend. A monster.

Bailey, a squib, had been his best friend. And then Remus had been bitten, and Bailey's wizarding parents had found out, and it was gone. All gone. They had tucked their son behind them and yelled from the safety of their doorstep, "Leave! Go away! People like you are not welcome here!"

And Adam. His parents had been significantly higher class than the Lupins, and had always prided themselves on their lack of prejudice. They had moved. They had actually moved away from their big house with big gardens and big rooms that they loved so much. They had moved away from the dysfunctional little Lupin family.

Sophie, too. She'd been loud and outgoing and adventurous, apparently scared of nothing. The moment she discovered Remus' secret, she screamed and ran. Ran away from their friendship. Ran away from a monster.

Severus Snape had ever been a friend, but now that he knew, it was all a lot worse. He threw cruel insults that hinted of Remus' condition. He glared at him when he caught his eye. He very clearly hated Remus for something that the young werewolf hadn't even been aware of at the time.

Even the teachers. Some were fine, but as much as they wanted to like Remus, some teachers were undoubtedly scared of the boy. Slughorn didn't answer his hand when he wanted help. A couple of the Defence teachers had truly hated him. One had punished him for a hundred things he didn't do. Another had asked him all the painful questions in the werewolf lesson.

Scorn. Mockery. Fear. Pity. Hatred. That's all he received. He was scorned from society. He was mocked about his situation. He was feared for his condition. He was pitied for his wounds. He was hated for all of it.

They didn't realise that he needed no more hate than he had already. He hated himself enough to cover everyone else. Hated himself for the sickening crunch that he could hear before spiralling into that giddy blackness. For the lack of control that he possessed while in wolf form. For the things he could do should he escape. He hated himself for the fact that he was hated by others. That he had always been unpopular. That he wasn't brave like a true Gryffindor.

He couldn't even ask out a girl. Couldn't even bring himself to ask Dorcas Meadowes whether she wanted to go to Hogsmeade or to one of Slughorn's parties or … _anywhere_ with him.

And he sat, hating himself and hating the Wolf and hating everyone he loved. He lay, so very, very alone in the sterile white room. A white that was so beautifully pure that Remus didn't want to get too close should he taint it. Because he wrecked everything. _Everything._

But whenever he thought of destruction, he thought of that blazing fire in her eyes.

Her hair was frizzy and uncontrollable like the Wolf.

Her eyes were deep brown, and her pupils so black, as pure the hatred that Remus received.

The freckles that dotted her nose so artfully were like the specks of blood that Remus tore form himself.

Her skin was pale like a clear, beautiful full moon.

Why could he compare her to nothing but the Wolf? Nothing but the thing that caused him despair? Why were all the beautiful things of the world so intertwined with the bad? She had captured his heart, but deserved so much better. She didn't want the heart of a monster. She didn't deserve the heart of a monster. No-one did. A monster's heart is best to keep to itself.


	6. Rebellion (SB)

**Hi! Just to make it clear: this is not a story, just a series of angsty one-shots. They may be unrelated or linked. There is no plotline, these are just little snapshots of the lives of the Marauders.**

 **So here's another Sirius chapter for you guys and gals! Enjoy! Tell me what you think!**

 **REBELLION**

The sun was a glittering golden orb floating above the grounds. Rays of light bounced off the small lake. The forest was alight with a soft green glow. The lawns were spacious and flat. Staying at the Potter Mansion certainly had its perks.

The pair of thirteen-year-olds spent the day in the sun, laughing and planning a new prank. It was perfect. Sirius was no longer in the stuffy house he'd grown up in. No, now he was staying an entire two weeks at the Potters'. No formal meals, no heavy dress robes for dinner parties, and no mother. Well, there was a mother, but not _his_ mother. Euphemia Potter was worlds away from Walburga Black.

She spoke calmly rather than coldly. Her yell was mellow rather than shrieking. Her eyes were soft hazel rather than sharp steel grey. Her posture was relaxed rather than rigid. There were a whole lot of nice things that came to mind when thinking of Mrs. Potter, and a whole lot of nasty things associated with Mrs. Black.

So for now, during the summer before third year, Sirius was content.

After a vicious race on broomsticks (of which James was the winner by mere centimetres), they went in, muddy and tired, for lunch.

It was a simple ordeal. One fork, one knife, one spoon. One glass and no wine at all. Once again worlds away from life at number twelve Grimmauld Place.

Fleamont Potter looked up from his potato. "James, we got an owl earlier. It's for you."

James opened the envelope that was handed to him and grinned. "Book list and _Hogsmeade permission forms."_ he said. "Know what that means, Sirius? It means Honeydukes and butterbeer and _Zonko's._ "

James' mother smiled warmly. "Pass me your list, James. I'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and get everything. Oh! You're taking Muggle Studies? That'll be fascinating."

Sirius suddenly choked. Right now, his own mother might be looking over his book list. She'd see those words: _Muggle Studies._

"Sirius, are you alright? You look a little pale."

"I..I'm fine. I'm fine."

He was not fine. When she found out, she'd never sign the Hogsmeade form. Sirius wouldn't be able to go to Zonko's to stock up on prank supplies. He wouldn't be able to taste the sweet tang on butterbeer, or explore the Shrieking Shack, or stuff himself with Honeydukes' best sweets. He'd be left alone at school while the rest of the students enjoyed themselves in the village. Third year would be a disaster.

* * *

Sirius returned home a week from the start of school. He climbed out of the floo in the kitchens to see his mother standing, glaring at him.

"Come. I need to discuss a matter of importance with you." She spoke curtly and coldly, stalking off and expecting him to follow.

They stopped in the drawing room. Sirius stood, looking down at his feet.

Even having lived there for his whole life, Sirius was daunted by his house. It may not be as big as James', but it was still huge, and more menacing. The walls were either green or black, cold stone or shining tiles. The carpets were thick and expensive and the lighting was dim. Everything was antique … Walburga was very strict about the expensive vases. And the whole atmosphere was stuffy and unpleasant. The walls seemed to press in, looming over the inhabitants. The portraits were rude and cruel, making snide remarks about everything. The house was usually eerily silent.

Walburga's voice cut through the icy air. "I received your book list the other day. I didn't like what I saw. Do you know why, Sirius?"

"Sorry, Mother. I knew you wanted me to take arithmancy, but-"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOU NOT TAKING ARITHMANCY! I CARE THAT YOU INSTEAD CHOSE _MUGGLE STUDIES!_ "

Sirius continued to look at his shined shoes.

"HAVE WE NOT TAUGHT YOU THAT THEY ARE BELOW US? THAT THEY ARE SIMPLE CREATURES WHO ARE NOTHING BUT _FILTH_? HAVE WE NOT TAUGHT YOU THAT THEY DO NOT DESERVE TO BE STUDIED?"

"You told me that."

"WHY DID YOU NOT LISTEN?"

"I don't know, Mother."

"YOU WILL NOT BE VISITING ALPHARD AT CHRISTMAS, YOU WILL NOT GO TO HOGSMEADE, AND YOUR BROOMSTICK WILL BE CONFISCATED!"

"Yes Mother." Sirius felt his stomach drop. Uncle Alphard was the only reason he survived the Christmas break, and if he had no broom, he was off the team.

"To your room, Sirius Orion Black. Stay there until I instruct otherwise."

And with a swirl of her green robes, she left.

Sirius went to his room. Blacks were known as many things: Slytherin, cold, cruel. Sirius may be different in that way, but there's one thing he inherited: stubbornness, and masses of it.

He knew what would happen later, but he wouldn't give in. He wanted to take Muggle Studies, so he _would_ take Muggle Studies.

* * *

He was confined to his room for three days. He was not allowed to send or receive owls. Food was brought to him three times a day by Kreacher.

Finally, on the fourth day, his mother and father came up, their faces stone cold and their eyes icy.

"Sirius," started his father. "I have been informed of your decision by your mother."

"Yes, sir."

"You have a choice to change your subjects. I have written to the head of your house, and she has asked to speak to you at the beginning of term. You must tell her then that you will not be taking Muggle Studies. I have bought the appropriate books for Arithmancy. Yes?"

"No, sir."

"No? No? What do you mean, boy?"

Sirius paused. "I don't want to take Arithmancy. I want to take Muggle Studies."

The silence was an icy sheet that separated Sirius Black from his parents.

Finally Orion spoke. Unlike his wife, his voice was quiet rather than deafening, though it was even more menacing. His voice was curt and threatening. "What did you just say, boy?"

"I said that I want to take Muggle Studies, sir."

 _Slap._ It was a sound that could often be heard in the Black household. A sound that meant a stinging pain and a red cheek.

Sirius' head snapped to the right as his father's hand collided with it.

His father looked around the room at the Gryffindor banners and photographs of the four Marauders and pictures of motorcycles, and the storm in his eyes elevated into a hurricane. He looked into the defiant eyes of his son and he curled his lip. He thought the words, _Muggle Studies_ and he finally cracked.

Sirius was pushed against the wall by his father. Orion held his face close to Sirius', and the two of them glared at each other.

The next words were spoken in a deadly whisper.

"If you want to remain in the family, you need to do as I say. If you want to continue being a Black - our heir - you must learn that the fire of rebellion will burn out, and that stupid Gryffindors aren't respectable enough to be powerful. If you want to succeed, you be a _Black._ You listen and you act properly. Understand, boy?"

Sirius scowled. "I will never understand you madmen."

The Black heir walked away from that night with a stinging cheek and sore ribs and a series of long thin bruises snaking across his back.

But the fire of rebellion wasn't snuffed out. No, his father had just added more fuel, making the fire stronger and hotter than ever before. Sirius would not be beaten down for long.

 **Tell me what you think, and remember - if you think that the Marauders have flaws I haven't written about yet, just tell me and I'll do my best!**


	7. Useless (PP)

**Hey! Another chapter for you awesome people! This is Peter again, and it seems … different. Maybe it's too happy? I'll let you judge - tell me what you think! Who do you want next?**

 **Useless**

In fifth year, everything changed.

Three of the four boys had spent many hours thinking about Remus. How he destroyed himself every single month. How he needed some relief, some help. How he seemed to hate the very notion of assistance, the very mention of anyone messing with his transformations. They remembered the terrified expression his face held as they told him the plan, but they also remembered the broken look in his eyes each time when he came back. Every single month. Every single month a night of pain, a reminder, he'd told them, that he wasn't human … that he was a monster.

Behind his backs - they didn't dare tell him - they worked on their project. The first attempt was the end of third year, and now … fifth year. The last month of fifth year, and they'd done it.

Of course Remus knew by then. One look at Sirius' unfamiliarly serious face when they told him was enough to let him know that he could never stop them from doing it.

The potion was sickly sweet and slightly addictive. There was a rush of calm as they let it run down their throats - even Sirius was silent. Then a grinding in their stomachs that warmed their bones.

Of course they'd felt it all before. They'd made several batches that had lasted since third year, and the feeling was becoming familiar. The clearing of their heads, the lack of negative thought. Sometimes they felt strange emotions … thoughts that were almost animalistic.

This time … well, they knew it was right. There was a general feeling of _correctness_ about it.

They spent the whole day working on transformation. The potion lasted three days, so they had plenty of time.

James was screwing his face up in utmost concentration.

Sirius had a look of complete and absolute calm on his face (he looked like a different person).

Peter didn't know what he looked like, but his brain was spinning in lazy circles as he attempted to clear his thoughts.

They sat for hours.

Peter was first. They'd always assumed it would be James, the transfiguration genius, or Sirius, who had studied the most about it. But no. It was tiny, mousy, scruffy little Peter Pettigrew, who couldn't _stand_ transfiguration lessons. He was terrified of Professor McGonagall, who was young but unimaginably strict. He hated sitting in class, waving his wand at something or other, and never getting anywhere.

But he turned first. The first thing he was aware of were whoops of delight. He still had his eyes closed, and at the sound of cheering, he opened them, expecting James to have sprouted antlers again, or Sirius admiring his new tail. That was what had happened the last few times. But then Peter realised that he was facing a pair of massive shoes - they were sharply pointed, rather like Sirius' ones. _Wait … no. No way._ Because they _were_ Sirius' shoes, and now another pair of black shoes had joined them. In fact, Peter could see a massive version of the whole room (the abandoned girls' bathrooms), and he wondered - perhaps the room wasn't bigger. _Perhaps he was smaller._ A raging wave of pride washed over him. He was first. The first to become an _animagus,_ something that even grown witches and wizards considered a frightfully difficult task. He had done it before James and before Sirius, and _he_ would help Remus.

But that was all crushed when James fell silent. "You're a rat, Peter."

Peter felt his animagus side slide away, and he stumbled out of his rodent form into a human again. He frowned, paling considerably. _What could a_ rat _do to help a grown werewolf?_

* * *

James had tried to cheer him up.

 _You can press the knot on the whomping willow. It's a vital job, Peter._

It really wasn't. They could use a stick, like everyone normally did.

 _Yeah, Peter._ Sirius had said, _You can do that. We can't even get in if the tree isn't frozen._

But Peter knew they didn't mean it. He knew that they, too thought a rat was useless, just as Peter had been in all their pranks. When had Peter actually properly led a prank? When had he been charged to cast the spells or make the potions? Never. He was the distraction, or the one who would close the door, or the lookout. Useless. Just useless. Utterly and completely useless.

When Remus had found out that one of them had successfully transformed, he paled to a shade lighter than the moon. He looked terrified, and fled the room without saying a word. Peter didn't know how Remus felt, but he guessed it wasn't good. Even Remus - kind, patient Remus who helped Peter with homework almost every day - didn't want Peter around to mess things up.

Maybe Avery and Mulciber were right. Maybe he was useless and a poor addition to the stupid group. Maybe no-one liked him at all. Maybe the other three Marauders didn't really want to include him … was it all a facade? All these years? Maybe _he_ was the snivelling idiot, not Severus. He must be an

idiot not to realise his uselessness.

Every morning, when he woke up, he pretended to see kind expressions plastered onto the scowling faces of Sirius and James and Remus. He took the advice they gave as a caring gesture, when in truth it was patronizing. Their playful banter wasn't playful at all - it was cruel. Their help with his homework merely dismissed his intelligence as lesser than their own. What was he doing, pretending he had real friends when really they hated the sight of him? What was wrong with him that he could only see what he wanted to see?

But of course that couldn't be right. They invited him over in the holidays, which was their free time. They laughed _with_ him, not at him … mostly. They happily shared their dormitory with him, and their lessons, and their time. They spent money on presents for his birthday and for Christmas. They went with him to Hogsmeade every time they went. And why would they bother giving him the answers to assignments that _they_ worked hard on if they didn't like him? Why did they include him in the animagus project, and the creation of the Map? Why hadn't they just kicked him out of the group? They did value him. They did.

And after James and Sirius had transformed as well, they'd come back from their first full moon excursion laughing quietly under the cloak. A drape of comfortable camaraderie rested over them as they discussed everything that had happened, and everything that was to happen. Remus lay in the hospital wing battered and bruised but not bitten and not scratched. It had been successful, but only after a small brown rat had caught the angry werewolf's attention by scurrying under a chair. It had chased Wormtail until he tired, and had spent the remainder of the night wrestling with Padfoot … under the watchful eye of Prongs, of course.

He'd done something. He wasn't useless - not completely, anyway. And as he fell into dreams of heroic deeds and triumphant marches, there was only a tiny spark of any thought that related to uselessness. But that was a spark that would only burst into flame in many, many months time. For now, Peter stayed content with the adventure of that night and the promise of many more nights like it.


	8. Hated (RL)

**This one was so easy to write! I was surprised, but it just came to me so clearly. I feel sorry for poor Remus in this one. :( Tell me if the first person worked well, or if I should stick to third.**

I, Remus Lupin, soon to be in my seventh year at Hogwarts (as soon as I can get out of this hospital bed!), have written this true account to show that people don't like werewolves, whether they know it or not.

August 31st 1977

The alleyway was gloomy, but I wasn't scared. Just cautious. Even as a teenager, I was well beyond being frightened by trivial things such as the dark. I was cautious for obvious reasons. We'd only recently moved into the new town, and I had only just come back from school and James' house respectively, so I was wary of the unfamiliar surroundings. It was a bigger community to what I was used to - most of the time, Mum tried to choose secluded villages or isolated homes. Here, in the centre of a large town, the people were unnerving.

Of course, being what I am, I am wary of everything. I have to be, or I may just find myself killed.

You see, people don't like werewolves. Not that the wizarding community here knows that I am one, unless they've done their research, and that's not likely. They won't suspect. They won't ever suspect a werewolf could go to Hogwarts.

Yes. The alleyway was gloomy. The shadows pressed in either side, and I kept to the left to avoid drawing unwanted attention. The light glowed faintly from a faraway streetlamp, bouncing off the damp brick. It was cold, too. Even in the middle of summer, the nights were chilly, and I wrapped my thick coat tighter around myself.

It happened all too fast. One moment I was striding down the alley, and the next I was pressed up against the wall. There was a wand at my throat.

"Remus Lupin?" Asked a gravelly voice from the wielder of the wand. A hood was drawn over his face, concealing his expression.

I nodded weakly, feeling absolutely pathetic. All those OUTSTANDINGs in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and here I was, at wandpoint and entirely helpless.

"You Half-breed scum. You little worthless creature, you think you can live here with us? No. You're not welcome here, and it's time to pay for what your kind have done! You've soiled the name of wizardkind, you and your kind … you're a disgrace!"

I stood silently, accepting the scorn and hatred. I had never expected anything more.

"And? What've you got to say?"

"I...I'm sorry about whatever ...whatever wrong was done to you. I swear I...I would never…"

"Quit your excuses. I don't care, alright?"

I nodded again.

He drew back, his wand held before him. He brought it back, prepared to launch some kind of curse at me…

And I ran. Top of the class, currently studying N.E.W.T Defence Against the Dark Arts, and a werewolf, I ran.

I was hit by a spell on my back, and felt a fleeting pain, something sticky and thick running down my back, but kept going. I shot a stunning spell behind me, but I must've missed in the darkness, because another spell rocketed past me, millimetres away from my arm.

I heard some of the words that left his mouth and was acutely aware that this was no drunk wizard. He was using serious spells, and he'd almost hit me with the cruciatus curse. Another hit to the leg and I yelled in pain and anger. It felt like a great weight was slamming repeatedly into my thigh.

My running slowed rapidly and I concentrated on dodging any more jets of light. In the end, with a trip jinx to my already aching leg, and I was on the ground. I yelled for help as loudly as I could while scrambling to my feet, and I limped towards the exit.

Suddenly he was on me. He threw me forward and I hardly registered that we'd left the alley.

"Crucio!" He growled.

I screamed. I didn't care about my dignity anymore - I just shrieked as pain filled my head. I felt like my mind would shatter into a thousand pieces, like my body was being ripped apart. It was as if a bonfire had been lit inside me, as if knives were piercing my skin. As if I was going to die. But would death be a relief? No pain, no prejudice. I had no reason to be in this world other than feeling pain and causing hatred. What was the point any more?

My own mind gave me the answer. There was something that made my life worthwhile.

 _Sirius smiled, "We're becoming animagi to_ help _you Remus. We don't want you to keep hurting yourself. We're helping you because that's what friends are for."_

 _James sprinted into the library, ignoring Madam Pince's scolding. "We did it! We did it, Remus!"_

 _Peter frowned from his seat on his bed, "Why does it matter you're a werewolf? You're still the Remus Lupin we've always known."_

 _Lily shrugged, still staring into the crackling flames. "I've known since third year. I just didn't think it really mattered."_

 _Dorcas still looked confused. "Well, whatever the secret is, I think you're still a great guy, Remus. Don't let it get in the way of what you want."_

 _Mum raised an eyebrow. "Don't you tell yourself these things. You're still a human being."_

 _Dad rushed into the room, looking shocked and excited. "Remus! You have a letter!"_

I was determined to keep living. For the friends and family who valued me. The friends and family who didn't care.

The pain continued with its mad intensity.

I'd felt pain before. Of course I had - I ripped myself apart every month, after all. But now, fully conscious and in human form, it was agony. I'm sure I lay there, screaming, for hours, but it must have been only mere minutes. There as a flash of light, and the pain stopped. I was shaking on the floor and everything seemed suddenly ice cold. The heat from the unforgivable curse had dissipated, and I was left in a bleak chill.

The world around me was blurring, the figures around me only dark smudges hovering in my vision. My head spun and there was an ache above my eye. My ankle throbbed and I felt the searing pain from my back now - it was irrelevant compared to the last few minutes of torture.

I smelt smoke and wet paving stones. It reached into my mind, curling around my thoughts. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth. If it had been nearer to a full moon, I would be craving for more of that rich red liquid, but now the metallic sweetness was sickening. I could hear voices muttering words, but it was too loud and it made my head pound. I wanted to ask them to stop speaking, because it hurt, but my mouth wouldn't move.

My eyelids started drifting closed and the voices faded into a background buzz of white noise. Then the conscious world spun away from me and blackness descended.

* * *

September 3rd 1977

I wandered in and out of consciousness. Every so often there would be a blur of colour of a snippet of sound. There might be a the shadow of a tender touch on my hand, or a waft of air on my face. But for the most part of the next three days, I was kept unconscious as the Healers got to work.

In my moments of conscious thought, I'd been told that dark magic had been used in almost every spell. My back was sliced to ribbons, just missing my spinal cord and any vital arteries. They'd tried to use the regulation healing spells, but residue of the curse still remained around the injury and repelled the attempts. They'd resolved to stitch and bandage it the muggle way until they found a suitable spell.

My ankle was nothing serious. It was simply a powerful stinging jinx, and they'd rubbed some kind of poultice on it that reduced the swelling.

My head still ached from the cruciatus curse. It had done no lasting damage, but any movement was slow and sluggish. Yellow and black spots swam in my vision as if a huge crowd of Hufflepuffs had come to visit me, but I doubted any of Hufflepuff house still liked me after the prank with the nifflers, and I sincerely hoped that none of them knew of my condition.

When I _could_ think, my mind steered me towards paths that I didn't want to walk: I started thinking of the wizards who hated my kind so much that they'd resort to dark magic to be rid of me. I wondered whether the man had actually had a reason, or if he just hated werewolves because everyone else did. Because we were monsters. Because when we didn't kill, we made others like us. Because we had no control - we were crazy, and driven only by the promise of human blood. And maybe, if you think that way, we deserved death. Werewolves like Fenrir Greyback, who enjoyed the tang of blood and the softness of flesh. Werewolves who were violent and cruel on purpose, who made no attempt to restrain themselves.

Not me. I have locked myself up every single month, whether it be in the shrieking shack or the cellar of my house. I'd never allow myself to run through the night unguarded by Padfoot and Prongs … and Wormtail too, but the rat could never hope to restrain a werewolf.

There. Another secret. I hated them. I hated having to hide things from the people I loved, and sometimes I would have an overwhelming urge to yell all my secrets to the world, because although they loved me as they saw me, did they love the real me? Maybe they loved Remus Lupin the sarcastic prefect, who would help with homework if you asked nicely, the boy who loved chocolate, but did they love Remus Lupin the werewolf? The werewolf who held a thousand secrets, who bore the pain of watching others enjoy life while he slowly destroyed himself.

Did I deserve love if all I ever did was lie?

 _My aunt's dead. I'm going home for a couple days to help my dad with the funeral._

 _We know that's not true, Remus._

If I led people on when they'd only end up hating me?

 _Remus! Just go away, alright? We're not friends anymore. You're a disgusting monster and you shouldn't be allowed to live!_

If my life was a facade, hiding pain and anger and the real me?

 _Tell me, Remus. What are you hiding? Where do you disappear to every month? Why are you always so sickly?_

Did I deserve love if, in truth, I was a monster?

No-one wanted me around them.

 _You're not welcome here!_

 _Not friends anymore._

People hated me for the secrets.

 _What are you hiding?_

 _Not friends anymore._

 _Always so sickly…_

People were afraid.

 _Shouldn't be in a school!_

 _Disgusting monster._

 _Monster!_

 _Always so sickly…_

 _Shouldn't be allowed to live._

I was hated, and I knew it.

 _Half-breed scum._

 _What are you hiding?_

 _Time to pay…_

 _You're not welcome here!_

 _Murderous beast._

 _Monster!_

I was dangerous.

 _Almost killed him!_

 _No control over their own minds._

 _Half-breed scum._

 _You think you can live here with us?_

 _You're a disgrace!_

 _Vicious, bloodthirsty creatures._

 _Little worthless creature!_

 _Not friends anymore._

 _Not true, Remus._

 _Soiled the name of wizardkind!_

And the voices rose in my mind, crawling over the walls I had built around them.

The next-door neighbour from my childhood, shunning me from the community.

 _Not friends anymore._

 _Disgusting monster._

 _Shouldn't be allowed to live!_

The man who'd attacked me, wanting to hurt me.

 _You think you can live here with us?_

 _Soiled the name of wizardkind!_

Severus Snape, after he saw the Wolf.

 _What are you hiding, Lupin?_

 _Vile beast!_

 _Shouldn't be in a school!_

James and Sirius, scared.

 _What are you hiding?_

 _Almost killed him!_

 _We know that isn't true._

An old Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, telling the class about dangerous magical creatures.

 _Murderous beast._

 _Vicious, bloodthirsty creatures._

 _Rip themselves apart._

 _Hunt for human flesh._

Dorcas Meadowes, just wanting to know what was wrong.

 _So sickly…_

 _What are you hiding?_

And as I lay there, alone, in the dark hospital room, I wept. I hadn't for years, not since James and Sirius and Peter had found out, but then I found icy cold tears dripping down over my cheeks, over my scars. The attack woke me up. It was like I had sheltered myself from the truth, like I'd told myself it wasn't true. Told myself I was loved, when instead, even if they didn't know it, everyone hated me. And this time, I knew. I knew that they didn't just hate the Wolf, the wild creature who wanted to kill - they hated me. Because however much I didn't want to admit it, the Wolf was part of me.

But even if people said they loved me, I knew they didn't. I've seen them cringe when I mention the transformation. I've seen them blanch when I describe the Wolf's crave for human flesh. I've caught them whispering among themselves, looking scared, especially after the incident with Snape in fifth year. They are repulsed with the entire idea of lycanthropy.

I shouldn't have been thinking like that, but after being pushed away - yet again - I felt the weight of all those years, of all those full moons, of all those people who had told me they hated me. Who really, really hated me … or soon would.


	9. Phantom Family (SB)

**Next chapter! Yay! I'd like to say a special thank you to all my reviewers. Even just letting me know that you like this story is great for me - it's brilliant motivation and speeds the updates. In particular,** _ **aarimas**_ **has sent some really enthusiastic, detailed reviews, and I thank you for that!**

 **This takes place just after the Christmas Holidays of the Marauders' fifth year.**

 **I'm not keeping to schedule, so I don't have a James chapter for you. If you have any suggestions for the Marauders (James especially), please drop them in a review or PM! For now, here's more SIRIUS!**

 **It's pretty long, and I took a while on this one, so please tell me how it went.**

 **Phantom Family**

Sirius normally quite enjoyed potions. The heavy scents were exotic, taking him away from the uniform and schedule and respectability that controlled his life. The general busy atmosphere was more comforting than a silent transfiguration class or a family meal. The damp, hot air flowed around him, so different from the dry, sterile air that sat in the Black household. The scents weren't dull and subtle but wild and strong and everything his parents had tried to push out of him. The steam that filled the classroom was full of illusion and a certain mystery that one couldn't find in a stuffy London townhouse, however large and ancient. The sting of some magical chemical in his eyes was arousing and sharp and _real_. Sirius liked anything unlike his home life, and potions provided all that.

Not anymore.

The class - smaller now that only NEWT students were taking it - filed into the room, and for once, Sirius kept his head down. He didn't want any more attention than he already had.

A howler had come for him at breakfast, screaming foul words and threats in his mother's voice. She had said such awful things about muggleborns and about Sirius himself that everyone had continued to stare in silence even when the blasted thing was reduced to a pile of ash. The very first day of sixth year, and already everyone knew that the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had been disowned.

Of course most knew already. The Blacks were an extremely influential family in the wizarding world, and after the _heir_ was disowned, it was in the news and everything. Sirius was either a hero or a coward to most of the British wizarding population. Everyone either praised him for breaking away, or sneered at him for backing out.

And Slughorn? Sirius braced himself, for the professor was surely going to tell the whole class how disappointing it was that Sirius couldn't follow in his family's footsteps to greatness.

He took a seat next to James, who frowned at him quizzically. Sirius gave him a small smile - that was all he could manage right now - and ducked his head to avoid Professor Slughorn, who was ambling past.

It wasn't as if he never saw the glances James gave him. Ever since he'd moved in with the Potters, James had been careful with him, as if handling delicate porcelain, worried that he would break. Sirius wouldn't break. He had told himself that the moment Remus had taken him to James', still covered in a layer of blood, still pale and shaking slightly. He would _not_ break.

But it was hard. Ever so hard to suppress the memories and the thoughts that came with his family. Now that he'd left his family, the thoughts remained. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his mother standing above him with her face twisted with rage. When he fell asleep, he felt bursts of pain across his back, ghosts of the many lashings he'd bore throughout his life. Whenever he was alone, he heard screams of anger and pain that had so often echoed around the house. Ever so often, there was a twinge in his temple, a phantom of the cruciatus curse. His back still bore scars from some of the harsher whippings that his mother had neglected to heal. The hundreds of beatings had finally caught up to him.

Slughorn started the register.

"Philip Avery."

"Here, sir."

"Philip, my boy! How was your holiday? I heard about your mother's promotion - ever so exciting, don't you think? She'll be excellent for that job. I just know it." He gave Avery no time to reply and continued. "Sarah Atkins?"

"Here, sir."

Slughorn didn't say another thing to Sarah - he only spoke to his favourites.

"Sirius Black!" he exclaimed with faked surprise and enthusiasm.

"Here, sir." Sirius mumbled with none of his usual panache. He could feel the stares of the class cutting into him as he bent his head over the desk.

"I heard you were disowned, of course. Nasty matter … I understand your mother is terribly distressed, and your poor cousins will most likely miss you as well. And what of Regulus?"

"I'm sure my mother will be just fine, Professor - she didn't sound too bothered at breakfast, and my cousins will be weeping at such a loss." he packed sarcasm into his words without making too obvious to the professor, but there were mutters around the class. "And Regulus can take care of himself."

"And you have somewhere to stay, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

Followed by curious glances from around the room, Sirius made the assigned potion with a new violence. The whole school knew about his situation from the howler, and he just wanted to be left alone.

 _Distressed._ Sirius snorted. That was one way to put it. They'd beat him bloody. Sirius didn't know why they resorted to muggle tortures, but he guessed it seemed more real to them, more satisfying to feel the shock of the belt racing up their arms as they beat their son and heir. Not any more. Never again.

 _Most likely miss you._ Bellatrix would be angry that her chew toy was gone, while Narcissa would be overjoyed that she'd never have to see her irritating little cousin again. And Andromeda … Slughorn wouldn't have meant her, being disowned as well, but she'd be proud of his escape.

 _Regulus._ That was the worry. Would he become a good little Death Eater like his cousins, or settle down with a respectable marriage like his parents? If Regulus joined them, Sirius didn't know what he would do. Could he fight against his own brother? No. No, it wouldn't do any good to ask those questions. He'd face them when they mattered.

But he couldn't concentrate. His phantom family stood at the front of his mind.

* * *

Lily didn't know what was up with Sirius. He'd been disowned, of course, everyone knew that, but shouldn't he be happy? Happy he'd got away from the family he so clearly hated?

Yet he walked with his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed and his eyes dark, and Lily didn't know what to think. Usually Sirius Black pranced around the corridors with a lightness in his eyes. He would be casting spells off at random, generally being an idiot and breaking every school rule out there. Lily often resented him for his hatred of Severus, yet now she felt pity. Pity for the boy who had never had a proper mother or father, who had never been allowed to speak his own mind in his own home.

She had thought her life was bad, with Severus drawing further away towards Mulciber and Avery, Petunia hating the magical world, her father ill with a muggle disease. She was worrying about how she looked while Sirius was worrying about not having a house to live in.

And she wondered where he was living now - surely a sixteen-year-old couldn't live on his own? Lily couldn't even imagine the loneliness - not just literally, but metaphorically, too - of realising that the people who were meant to love you, who'd brought you up and nurtured you and taught you, didn't want you around anymore. The immense pain from that must be overwhelming, the sadness sickening.

Lily - and the rest of the school - didn't know what to think.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, James watched Sirius receive letter after letter. Each was enclosed in a black envelope, the name of the recipient printed on the front in a curling silver script.

With each letter, Sirius became more touchy, more bitter. He no longer had the spirit to perform pranks. He ignored Snape and his brother and Narcissa. He walked, slightly behind the rest of the group, with his shoulders hunched and his eyes dark.

Each letter he read, paused with a blank look on his face, then threw into the fire, watching it burn with a malicious glint in his eyes. As soon as the parchment was no more than a memory, the shimmer of anger simply burnt out, leaving his grey eyes cold and glassy. He'd then leave the other Marauders and lock himself in the bathroom. All that could be heard for the next half hour over the sound of running water would be cries of anger and loud crashes as he took his anger out.

James hated that these people could do this to Sirius. Could twist him into a hundred painful shapes until he cracked. He hated that even now they were gone, they followed Sirius in nightmares and in letters and in glares from Regulus and Narcissa. He hated seeing his friend go through so much pain for a family that he was no longer even part of.

He couldn't pull away. That was the problem. Couldn't stop reading the letters, couldn't stop sending answering glares to his old family members. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black still rested within his, a painful ghost of years past. Years - James now knew - full of scoldings and beatings and stiff dinner parties and talk of the rising 'Dark Lord'. He hated his old family, yet he couldn't get away from them.

Sirius pushed away anyone trying to help, becoming snappy and closed, yelling and arguing and generally making his own mood even worse. He no longer properly contributed to conversations, preferring to stare out the window or at the wall, lost in his own little world of sorrow.

And James watched his best friend fall down the pit of despair.

Then, very abruptly, the letters stopped.

Sirius, after a week with no letters, went quiet. When approached, he was polite and gentle. When included in a conversation, he merely smiled pitifully. He was quiet and still detached, still dazed and constantly staring at the walls, and somehow James hated it even more than the yelling.

"Sirius, what is up with you?" James asked one night after a particularly boring Defence lesson.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You've been quiet and it's not right. Not right at all."

"I don't know what you mean." And with that, he walked off. Sirius Black turned his back on James Potter.

The whole school noticed something was up. No famous Marauder pranks were pulled, and it had been over a month. The question buzzed in everyone's mind: what was up with Sirius Black?

* * *

It took Regulus for him to finally snap. He was walking between lessons - just Sirius, because no-one else took Muggle Studies in their group - when he passed the new Black heir in the Charms corridor.

"Sirius." he said, voice coldly formal.

Somehow that cold voice struck Sirius' mind. What had his brother become? His brother who was always so gentle, always the thoughtful one. How had he changed into such a typical Black, and when? How had Sirius missed it? Maybe he was behind. Maybe he should have payed more attention to his little brother. Maybe he could've helped.

"Regulus."

"Mother burnt it off."

"What?"

"Your name. Off the tapestry. She blasted it off."

"Oh. How … how are things? With you … at home." Sirius didn't want to admit the pain he felt to hear about the tapestry. He didn't want to feel it - knew he shouldn't feel it - but it struck a chord in his heart. He was truly gone from them, yet the memory of his family haunted his every breath.

"Fine. I wanted to tell you … I ... well, I've been asked to join him."

Silence. A ringing tension. A numb feeling. Fear.

"Asked to join the Dark Lord."

Sirius stood there, feeling like his head had finally broken the surface of a deep lake of ignorance. Fourteen years old, and his little brother had already been invited to join a group of sadistic blood purists. Regulus, who hadn't had the heart to kill a spider, instead settling it outside on the grass. Regulus, always fascinated by the tiniest things: birdsong and snow and muggle devices. Regulus, who was still an innocent little boy in his brother's mind.

"Oh." Sirius choked out, feeling like a knife was piercing his heart, twisting slowly. "Regulus, whatever happens … I love you, okay? Be careful, and stay in one piece for me. I couldn't handle it if you … yeah."

"Same with you. Well, see you, I guess."

"Yeah."

And Regulus stalked off.

Sirius ran to the nearest bathroom. He didn't care who saw, he just leaned over the sink and wept. Wept for the brother who was no longer his brother. Who would inevitably die. Who would face Sirius on the battlefield eventually. Wept for the family he no longer had. Who were cruel. Who had twisted a gentle boy into a cold man. Wept for the stupid war. Which ensured death. Which meant Sirius had to fight against his own family. Wept for his whole cursed life. A life of pain and misery. A life that would surely end in grief and sorrow and the horrors of war.

In the cracked mirror, he could see his eyes were red, his skin was pale, and he was shaking. The previous inhabitants of the bathroom had fled, leaving Sirius alone in the room.

He kept crying, each tear taking his closer to the real world. He came to terms with the last few years. The pain, the anger, the sadness, all dripping slowly into the sink. They were gone. There would be no punishment for speaking without being spoken to. There would be no agonising lashings for rejecting their ideals. There would be no yelling from his demon of a mother.

Gone. All of it gone. Down the sink, in his tears. Until it all drained out of him.

He had no idea when his dry sobs ceased. The sky was dark through the windows, and the corridors were devoid of people. Sirius ignored curfew. If he got caught, what would happen? A detention. Nothing compared to what was to come.

Sirius knew, eventually, war would be upon them, and he would fight against his blood with all he had.


	10. Nothing More (JP)

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while! I finally managed a James chapter. Keep reviewing, you wonderful people, and read on.**

 **Nothing more**

James looked up as the portrait hole opened. He stood, aware that he was blushing furiously, and rubbed his sweaty hands on his robes.

"Hey, Evans, can I speak to you please?"

The small group of third year girls looked up as he called the name of one of them. They muttered amongst themselves, and James felt himself reddening even more. His heart was hammering in his chest, his breathing was too fast … why were girls so terrifying?

The redhead raised a questioning eyebrow. "Sure, Potter."

"In private." James added, his voice a mere mutter.

"What, so you can hex me or prank me? No, Potter. Whatever you have to say had better be said in front of all of us."

James hesitated. The girls were giggling behind Lily's back, and she looked exasperated at the time he was taking. He could almost sense Sirius a few metres behind him, probably snickering or making eyes at the other girls.

"Will you … will you come to Hogsmeade with me?" He stuttered. He was sure his face must be purple by now.

Lily raised an eyebrow again, sweeping her beautiful red hair behind her ear. "No. Sorry, Potter, but I'm not going out with a bully."

"Oh. Okay, then."

When the group of girls left, still giggling (why do they _do_ that?, James thought), the rejected boy sat down with a groan.

Sirius sat beside him, tossing his head back as he barked a laugh. "Ask again in a week, Jimmy. I still don't get why you like _her_ of all people, but give it a go and she'll have to agree eventually."

James just put his head in his hands, hardly listening to his best friend. He'd spent his life having his wishes delivered straight to him that the rejection hit hard, and he suddenly felt ill. The whole of Hogwarts would probably be laughing at him when they found out. He'd finally built the nerves to ask and his hopes were ruined after one word from Lily Evans.

Sirius noticed his despair. "Just ask again, mate. Be nice to her and lay off Snape for a while, and it'll work wonders."

* * *

James listened to his friend's advice. For two whole weeks he was quieter in class, he teased Snivellus less, held doors open for Lily (who either stared at him in confusion or glared), and was generally as much of a gentleman he could bear to be.

At the end of those two weeks, he approached Evans again. This time it was just after charms, and they were both heading to Transfiguration. Lily was walking ahead of James, and as he watched, an older student ran down the rapidly emptying corridor, jostling Lily and knocking her bag to the floor. Her papers flew into the air, settling on the flagstones all around her.

"Hey, Ev- Lily! Let me help you with that."

"What is it? I can do it on my own, you know."

"Well, I thought you might appreciate some help." Lily didn't complain. After a minute of scrambling around and attempting to clear up some spilt ink, James broke the silence. "You know, Hogsmeade trip is on Sunday, and-"

"Potter, I told you I won't go out with someone who is so cruel to Severus."

The rejection stung again, leaving another pinprick of pain in James' heart. What had he done to make her so angry?

"Lily-"

She just shouldered her bag and walked off, leaving James kneeling hopelessly in the middle of the scattered papers.

* * *

James spent the next three years asking Lily out, to no avail. Each time she refused left him with another wound, another thing to despair about, another reason not to be himself.

"Evans, what do you think-"

"I think you're an idiot."

He wouldn't let it get to him. He asked with more gusto each time, made it more dramatic, or more public, trying to be _noticed_ by her, at least. When she refused him, he'd smile and say it was nothing, however bruised he became inside, insisting it was all part of his 'plan'.

"You know, Evans-"

"Yeah, I know how arrogant you are. No need to tell me."

He had no plan. He knew that, but he found himself thinking he did. He told himself that everything would work out. If he didn't, he might find himself upset, and that wouldn't do at all.

"What did you think of the Quidditch?"

"I think it's a shame Mulciber didn't knock some sense into you with a bludger."

What would everyone say if they found that James Potter _cared?_ If they found that it mattered to him - that it wasn't just a game. Because even James couldn't deny that he was a little self-conscious.

"Lily-"

"No."

And every night, away from prying eyes, he sat in his bed and cried silently because Lily made him soft, and he made Lily angry.

* * *

It was halfway through sixth year that James completely changed his tack.

One night in the dormitory, Sirius had a detention and Peter had to ask Slughorn about the potions homework. James and Remus were sat in front of a chessboard.

"I just don't get why she won't go out with me! I've been nice to her for the past three years, and I barely hex Snivellus at all anymore. You know her, Remus. You chat to her all the time - what do you think?"

"I think you should leave her alone."

James paused, staring incredulously. "What?"

"Lay off her for a while. She's annoyed that you keep bugging her. Just keep quiet for a while and don't ask her out at all. Keep being nice, though."

"But then she'll never even notice me."

"It's pretty hard not to notice you, James. Be yourself. You're always too arrogant around her, trying to show off."

James went silent again. "Really? I'm different around her?"

"Yeah. You mess up your hair and try to look cool, James. Don't." Remus looked deadly serious, so James relaxed and decided to believe him. He processed the information. He guessed it would be annoying to be bugged to go out with someone nonstop for three years. James steeled his resolves. He wouldn't ask Lily out. He wouldn't show off. He'd be himself.

"Alright. Okay. Yeah, I'll do it."

* * *

James did as he had been advised. He watched her sometimes, which he knew should be a creepy thing to do, but it was as if his eyes were attached to her - it was the way they went naturally, and it just seemed right.

He watched as she laughed with her friends, and as she pulled away from Snape. He watched as she received some of the best grades of the year in most subjects they shared. He watched - however painful it was - as she started going out with Edgar Bones from Ravenclaw.

Edgar was a nice guy, James knew. They'd talked about quidditch a couple times when they'd shared a detention, and he was a good laugh. James also knew that girls considered him attractive with his pretty blue eyes and tanned skin from his holidays in Europe. He seemed to be good to Lily - she smiled more when she was with him - and he never bragged about their relationship.

That didn't stop the pain. James knew he wasn't over Lily (far from it), but he didn't expect the potency of the jealousy that burned inside him. Suddenly the thought of discussing quidditch with Edgar made him want to throw up. Whenever he saw Lily he had an urge to hold her and not let go.

He was lovesick - there was no other word for it.

* * *

He was ashamed to say it, but when he saw Lily crying, he was relieved. _Had she broken up with Edgar?_ His second thought was for her, and yet again he wanted to beg her to go to Hogsmeade with him. He wanted to see that smile on her face again, he wanted to be in her presence, where he always felt self-conscious …. he wanted Lily Evans, and there was no denying it.

So he approached her."Are you alright?"

Lily hastily wiped away her tears when she saw him. "Yeah. Yes, I'm fine."

"Really? Why are you crying?" James settled himself on the sofa beside her.

"Why are you interested? I haven't even spoke to you for at least a year."

"So? Doesn't mean I don't want to help you out."

Lily sniffed, wiping at her eyes again and leaning back into the sofa. "It wasn't working out for me and Edgar. It … it just didn't seem special anymore. Didn't feel right. I wasn't really into the relationship - to be honest, I was a bit sick of it. So I told him that, and now we've broken up, and I feel guilty. He seemed really sad."

"My mum's always told me to do what I think is right. To never do something you don't want to do just to please someone else. Do you think this is right for you?"

"Yes."

"Then you shouldn't feel bad."

"Thank you, James."

It was the first time she'd called him 'James' rather than 'Potter'.

* * *

James and Lily were on good terms after that. The group of girls (or sometimes just Lily) often sat with the Marauders at mealtimes. The first time she'd joined them, Sirius had stared at her for the whole meal, completely confused (and slightly horrified) at the new advancement. Lily Evans _talking_ to James Potter? Unheard of.

But soon enough, the two groups became more comfortable with each other and James found himself loving Lily in a completely different way. At the start it had been because of her beauty. He had loved the deep red of her hair and the shining green of her eyes and her porcelain skin. Then it had become a game: he loved her because she kept refusing, because she was passionate and wouldn't let anyone tell her what to do. When she had gone out with Edgar it had been about longing - James had wanted what he couldn't get. Now? Now James saw her kindness and her pure values and her strength. Now that he saw all that, he became wistful for those rich laughs and sweet smiles that she gave him. Laughs and smiles so pure and real that every emotion was displayed on her face. Everything about her - inside and out - was beautiful, and James became completely under her power.

If she told him to stop, he stopped whatever he was doing, whether it be a prank or a particularly bad joke, or even charms homework. If she asked him to do something, he never questioned it - he would pick up the book or he would write the potions essay or he would open the door.

She was also completely sure of herself. It had used to annoy James, but now it became endearing. She wasn't only beautiful and intelligent, but she was confident, too.

That was the problem. That was the real problem, because if she didn't like James in that way, she didn't like James in that way. No question, no consideration. She was not someone to change her mind quickly.

And James was sure she didn't like him. She treated him like a friend and nothing more. She looked at him as a friend and nothing more. She thought of him as a friend and nothing more.

That thought was what threatened to rip his mind apart.

* * *

 **I was going to go on to when she said yes, but I realised that if I did that, it wouldn't be angst, and the whole point of this collection is angst. So I stopped. Sorry, James!**

 **Any other angsty Marauder stuff you want to see? Just tell me!**


	11. Big Bad Wolf (RL)

**Don't know what to think of this one. I was bored, and this is what came out.**

The full moon shone bright against the dark sky, a glowing eye that seemed to be watching, waiting. It had a certain presence that itched at the mind - not a comforting presence, no, it was malevolent, like the rolling clouds before the storm hit, like the half-light that hovered in the air before night fell, like the ticking of a bomb before it blew.

It was a warning.

The night was a yawning hole ready to swallow the world, the icy chill a snake waiting to bite. There was not a breath of wind or the cry of a bird, or anything. The world was silent.

On that night, under that moon, in Wales, sat a boy at his window. He was four, but was proud to say he was turning five in two months time. He squinted at the moon, pulling a face. He didn't like it. Even his four-nearly-five-year-old mind didn't like it.

But he knew that he really should sleep, else Mummy would be angry, so he slid under the covers and closed his eyes.

Mere minutes later, just as the boy was drifting off, a shape appeared, cutting off the harsh moonlight from the room.

It leapt onto the boy and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

The crisp silence of the night was penetrated by a guttural scream.

And so Remus Lupin became a werewolf.

* * *

It was a summer's night, just after curfew, and the fourteen-year-old Marauders were lingering by the treeline of the forbidden forest.

"But … what's in there?" Peter hissed.

"No-one knows," Sirius said, grinning, "but there are rumours it's infested with vampires."

"Yeah, and dementors." James added.

"Acromantulas."

"Nundus."

"Couple of manticores."

"And the infamous Hogwarts chimera."

Peter seemed to shiver more with each word. "Really?" he asked, his voice quavering as James led them into the forest.

"Yeah. Fabian said he saw a lethifold." Sirius, clearly enjoying himself, was put out when Remus rolled his eyes and spoke.

"Don't be stupid. Lethifolds only live in tropical climates. They can't survive the Scottish weather."

"But it's summer!" Peter protested.

"It's not even warm."

They'd wandered pretty deep into the trees by now, with Peter glancing around into the darkness and Sirius rolling his eyes at Remus.

"Stop sucking the life out of everything, Lupin."

"Yes Lupin, stop sucking the life out of everything. Or should I say, biting the life out of everything."

The group fell silent.

"Who was that?" James called out into the gloom. "Show yourself."

The forest stayed dark and silent, and the malicious voice didn't come again.

"Who's there?"

Silence. They could no longer hear anything. Not the rustling of the leaves or the calls of various animals, just silence so sharp it cut through their heads.

"Maybe we should go back." Peter suggested warily.

"No," said Sirius. "Whoever's there, be a man and show yourself! We're not afraid."

"Maybe you should be." The voice growled, seeming to be mere feet away.

Remus finally spoke up. "Who are you?"

"Oh, but Remus. Surely you remember? We've met before!"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said, but uncertainty hovered in his mind. The voice was eerily familiar. He hadn't heard it before - he was sure about that - but something about it tickled his senses.

Suddenly Sirius lit his wand and the forest was bathed in harsh wandlight.

A man rested against a tree nearby.

James focused on the man's stance. He was casually resting on the tree, but his left arm hung a little lower than his right and his weight was focused on one leg, speaking of old injuries. He leaned slightly towards them, as if eager to pounce.

Peter was horrified by his teeth. They were varying shades of yellow and brown, sharp and pointed and canine. They hung crookedly from his bleeding gums, and were bared in a menacing grin. They were stained with blood.

Sirius eyed the man's hair, worlds away from his own careful locks. It was pale brown and stringy, as if it hadn't been washed in years, scraped across his scalp like a mouldy spider. He had a scraggly beard that looked as if it had been bitten into shape rather than cut. The ends were glistening with something dark, and too thick to be sweat.

Remus just stared at it all. Aside from the stance and the teeth and the hair, his skin was deathly pale, his face and visible body marred by scars, his eyes a glowing yellow.

"You're a werewolf." Remus said.

"I am. Do you know my name?"

He paused, remembering the newspapers he had scoured for more information on werewolves, the books he had devoured, the people he had asked. He remembered horror stories and gruesome illustrations and official-looking photographs.

"Fenrir Greyback."

He heard Sirius squeak behind him, but he didn't move an inch.

"You're Fenrir Greyback." He repeated.

"I am. And you, Remus Lupin, you're mine."

James stepped forward. "Remus doesn't belong to anyone."

"Oh, but he does. Remus, do you remember last time we met?"

"Last time?" Remus felt his heart stop. Could it be…? No. Never.

"You were four, turning five. It was around eleven o'clock. Full moon, but you weren't transformed. You hadn't been turned. Not yet."

Remus felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck despite the chill of the night.

"Getting it yet?"

He stayed silent, allowing his thoughts to rush over him all at once, and he battled the wave, trying not to be submerged.

"Yes, I know. Hard to think about, yes? You're mine, as I said. I bit you, little wolf."

He was drowning. Underneath his doubts, worries, fears. Fenrir Greyback. His friends looked confused, apart from Sirius, who knew exactly what Fenrir Greyback did from his mother's bedtime stories.

"Join me. Join the pack. You're on the wrong side, Remus Lupin."

And Remus woke up. He broke the surface of the water and lowered his voice, anger replacing the fear. "Get away from me." His eyes were no longer soft amber but a predator's yellow. His voice had descended into a feral growl.

Fenrir Greyback had brought the wolf out of him, and now it was angry.

The man didn't move.

"I said, go away."

"Don't you want to know why I chose your window that night? Why not Tommy Walters down the lane, or Susie Chapman from next door? No, Lupin. I chose you."

Remus didn't say a thing.

"Your father knew what I was. Not like the rest of the department. They thought I was some muggle hobo. No, your father knew, and he called me out on it. You know what he said to me that night? He said that all werewolves were soulless, evil, and deserving nothing but death. That's your father, Lupin. And he knew who it was who bit you that night. Why didn't he tell you? Why didn't he tell you, Remus?"

The water was almost over his head again, the waves rolling around him. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. It was overwhelming him. He could just tread water, stay above his thoughts.

"Was he ashamed? Scared you'd hate him? Your father is a coward, little wolf."

And by now Greyback was at Remus' face, the warm odour of his breath brushing brushing the boy's skin, sending shivers down his spine.

Sirius frowned. "Get away from my friend, you monster."

Greyback just grinned, a little laugh spilling from between his mouldy teeth. "I'll be back, boy. Just you wait. Consider my offer, and remember you are mine."

He melted into the shadows, leaving the Marauders alone in the darkness.

Remus fell to his knees. His friends were speaking, but it was all just a blur of sound. He clutched at his head, breathing fast. The water was coming. He felt his anger and pain and despair reaching to him from where it was buried.

And it dug itself out. Suddenly the emotions weren't just waves in the water of Remus' mind. Each one was a tsunami, a sea monster that aimed to destroy, to kill, to end it all. And he was tempted. To end the pain, the worry, the fear.

He was angry. His father was a kind man, one who loved to laugh and joke and he lightened Remus' life at home with a single word. But he'd always been sensitive about the werewolf thing. Never brought it up. This was why, and Greyback was right. They were the actions of a coward. He had caused so much pain. So much pain in Remus' life, and he'd been too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to attempt to soften the blow.

And Remus was afraid too. Never before had such fear consumed him. He wanted to run, to hide, to cower away from the Big Bad Wolf. Fenrir Greyback was stuff of nightmares. He was a recurring theme in wizard horror stories. And he wanted Remus. He wanted Remus. Wanted him.

Was he 'his'? Did Remus truly belong to such a monster? Would it be better if he did join the pack? Less hiding and secrets and pain? Would it be worth it to leave the Marauders?

No, he told himself. Nothing is worth that.

And he passed out.

* * *

Remus was alone. He needed a break from NEWTs and from girls and from even his friends. It was the February of seventh year and life was not looking good.

His grades were excellent and the Marauders were as strong as ever, but Remus was stressing all day long about a certain pretty Hufflepuff - Dorcas Meadowes - and about the exams that were approaching too fast, and about life after Hogwarts.

The whole idea was a pressure point for Remus. Careers advice day? He had hidden from McGonagall so as not to attend the meeting. Whenever his friends mentioned any life afterwards, he became distant and numb and scared. He had never been so scared.

Hogwarts was his sanctuary, his home. A place he loved more than anything. A place he had hardly known anything outside of. It was either home or Hogwarts or James' house.

Now he was expected to get a job and … live. As a normal person.

He had searched for jobs. No proper jobs would take 'beasts' (as werewolves were currently defined), or didn't run a full background check. Nobody would take a werewolf.

And as he brooded over the future, a dark shape moved closer to the treeline. In the click of a finger, a hand was over Remus' mouth and his wand was gone and he was in a tight grip.

He bit the hand, and it let go with a yelp. He started lashing out, but his arms were pinned by his sides and the person who was holding him was strong. And they tasted awful.

"We meet again, Lupin." a low, growling voice.

"Greyback."

"This is your last chance, Lupin. Live as a proud wolf, or die as a weak human."

And that was the thing. The very thing that itched as Remus' mind. He could never have a future with his fellow wizards, so why not have a future as a wolf? He would be free, so utterly free. The Wolf could hunt and play and not injure itself, and he wouldn't have to hide.

A family. A family with the pack. Others like him, who understood.

A purpose. Maybe he could convince the other wolves not to bite intentionally? Maybe he could change the pack for the better, prevent more pain and loss.

A future. No pain. No hiding. No lies and secrets. He could be a proper part of something, away from the stupid prejudice of the wizarding world.

Away from … the Marauders.

A family. Laughter and happiness and a beautiful camaraderie that only came with the purest friendship.

A purpose. He could join the Order, fight against Voldemort, against evil. He would be part of a noble organisation.

A future. A future with friends, when Voldemort was gone, in a more equal world. He could have a life. A human life.

Was he human? Did he deserve that life? Or was he a monster? Was his whole life just destined to spiral downwards into the deepest pits of hatred, shunned by humanity?

Remus snarled, fed up of being forced to choose. Fed up of two sides pulling at him, tugging him in either direction like in some horrific game of 'Tug of War'. "I'll live," he said, "but not your life, Greyback. I refuse to live like a wild beast, destroying not only my life but the lives of others. I'll live as a man, and die with honour."

Greyback just laughed, "A bit of poet, aren't you? What fancy words - but that's what an education does, I guess. And spoken like a true human: stupidly. You think you're one of them, don't you? Have you learnt nothing?" He laughed again. "I will see you again, Lupin."

Remus despaired for hours after Greyback left, sitting in the dark forest.

How could he ever live, bearing such pain, so many secrets?

He was little Red Riding Hood, and he was travelling through the forest, trying to reach Grandma, held back by the Big Bad Wolf. But when he reached his goal - Grandma - would she already be dead?

His life was not only cursed; it was haunted. Haunted with the shadow of the Wolf. It would never stop - the pain, the secrets, Greyback. He would always be pulled back, back through the forest and away from Grandma, so what was the point in going forwards at all?

* * *

He was on a mission. It was January 1981, and Remus Lupin was leaning against the brick of a building.

His heart was racing, sweat pouring down his back in folds. But he smiled. He'd done it. One more rogue werewolf was locked up and the Order were one step closer to finding-

A shape leapt out if the shadows, pressing Remus against the cool bricks. A gnarled hand was tight around his mouth.

"Lupin."

The hand released his mouth, but a silent threat lay in the growled words.

"Greyback." the name still haunted his nightmares even now, the voice following his every step, the face flashing before his eyes every time he blinked.

"We meet again, and this time? This time you die."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

His casual words casual words hid the fear.

"Don't play with me, little wolf. I feel your fear, and it is like pure gold to me."

And Remus tried to look casual again as he opened his mouth, but instead of answering he let out a cry for help.

In a flash, the hand was over his mouth again, but the damage had been done, and there were shouts and echoing footsteps from all around.

Greyback leaned in close, his harsh voice lowered to a whisper. "I will remember you, Remus Lupin. Mark my words, you will feel my bite once again."

Remus was found by the Order, alone in an alleyway, crying and crying, because the Big Bad Wolf had got him once again.

* * *

 **Angsty enough? Was it a bit weird?**

 **Any requests for other chapters? I need stuff for Peter and James, but the other two could do with some ideas too. That would be really helpful.**

 **Thanks to all my lovely readers (and reviewers *hint, hint*)!**


	12. In the Hatred of a Minute (PP)

**I had a request from** _ **aarimas**_ **(thanks for the advice, BTW) for, well… this. So, here goes!**

 **The hatred of a minute**

* * *

 _Years of love have been forgot, in the hatred of a minute._

 _-Edgar Allen Poe_

Did he feel bad?

What a question.

It was hard. It really was. In the end, there was only one answer to that.

He thought of the four of them, laughing at stupid jokes and pranks, passed out drunk after Sirius' birthday, talking about serious matters. He thought of first year, when they were so close, so innocent. Peter had loved them.

He had loved James' confidence, his laughter and his willingness to include Peter in the group. James had always been friendly to him, occasionally understanding. James had given him a part in their revels, however small they may have been, and he made Peter think he was valued, that he was part of something.

He had loved Remus' advice. The werewolf (though he hadn't known that at the time) had aided him in homework for any subject but herbology, and Peter was fine with plants. Sometimes. Remus had helped him build his own confidence, rather than hide in the shadows, helped him express himself.

He hadn't _loved_ Sirius. He hadn't even _liked_ the brash temper that he held, or the general rudeness and boastfulness - though, when he thought about it, James shared many of those negative qualities. But he was fine with Sirius. He might go so far as saying that there were parts of him that were okay at times. Might.

And they'd been a close knit group, the four of them.

Peter was walking down, down, down, lower and lower into the dungeons. He was no longer afraid of the shadows, the eerie green light. He almost felt comforted by the icy atmosphere around him. But that hadn't developed until earlier that year.

Anyway, a close knit group. Until the secrets came out.

Halfway through second year, they finally worked out what was wrong with Remus. They'd been watching him closely, and had come to the conclusion that he was a werewolf.

" _He's just Remus. Just the same old Remus. You're okay with that, Peter. Right?"_

" _Course! It's just Remus."_

Peter had been terrified, really. He had tried to hide it (and done remarkably well), being generally quite polite with Remus, but honestly? He really wasn't alright. They'd barely asked him, and so he was stuck with a werewolf in his dorm. And he was scared. Scared out of his mind.

That fear? It turned to hatred soon enough. After about two years, he started hating Remus Lupin. The scars on his face, his pale skin, his monthly transformations. He hated the smell of chocolate and the threadbare jumpers and that _smile_. The smile that meant everything was okay. Because it wasn't. It wasn't okay that he was a dark creature. An evil creature. And that he was living in the bed next to Peter's. That really wasn't okay. It wasn't okay that a dark creature was offering to help with homework. How could a dark creature be allowed a wand in the first place? Allowed in Hogwarts? It wasn't okay. Nothing about anything was okay anymore, and all Peter could do was deal with it.

So out of the group, Peter could say he had one friend. One person he trusted. Was that bad? Bad that he hated the people he lived with and hung out with and called friends? Was it bad that a teenaged boy had a total of one friend?

He didn't know. He didn't know what went on in other people's minds. He'd never been very good at people anyway.

Peter spun around a corner, tracing the familiar path to the deepest depths of the dungeons. If the Marauders saw him now…

A bitter laugh spilled from his mouth. They'd never know. Never know what hit them.

Sirius had been the next to fall into the 'hatred' category. He'd never liked the boy in the first place, but it was fourth year that he started to loathe Sirius.

Nothing had happened, not of real importance, but Sirius' bad qualities had just expanded, and suddenly his confidence was belittling and his loudness was vulgar and his rudeness was cruel. His words stung, and every sentence was carefully crafted like a proper Black (though Sirius would rather die than be anything resembling a Black) and Peter just suddenly noticed it. Noticed that Sirius insulted him too often to class it as teasing, and ignored him too much for it to be classed as bad hearing. The truth was, Sirius had become something of a bully in Peter's eyes, and that made him an enemy.

Peter was almost there, now. He was relaxed and comfortable and a little bit excited.

Eventually, it had to happen. By the end of fifth year, Peter didn't like James. By the end of sixth year, he decided it was hatred. He seemed to be full of hatred, Peter. He didn't know why, but every molecule of his body just wanted something to hate, something to complain about. Are molecules meant to hate? Peter knew he wasn't a very scientific person, but he was _sure_ that his molecules just loved to hate.

And that fell on James. James had slowly started to ignore Peter. He felt himself become irrelevant in the mind of the Potter heir, felt himself be slowly pushed away. Naturally, _Sirius_ was James' best friend. Remus was right up there too. How could James let himself be manipulated by two such detestable people? Peter didn't know, but James had clearly been influenced, and Peter was falling behind.

Peter, naturally, had needed to do something. He'd been given a perfect opportunity.

He opened the door and walked in among the group. There were about twenty Slytherins, three Ravenclaws and a single Hufflepuff.

"Ah, Peter," Mulciber drawled as he joined them. "Any news on that Order of yours?"

Peter smiled. "Oh, yes."

And he spilled the secrets of a noble organisation to the crowd of future Death Eaters.

Did he feel bad? Maybe he would, if he thought about first year and the friendship he had had back then. But he didn't think about that any more, so the answer was no. Peter didn't regret a thing.

* * *

 **Ooh, evil. This is quite similar to Importance, but I prefer it. What do you think?**

 **(If you didn't realise, that's me telling you to review. Pleeeeeeaaaaassse?!)**

 **Also, any requests? I'm open to any advice, criticism, ideas, questions, whatever.**


	13. A Diary (JP)

**Another fic for the Honeydukes challenge on the Reviews Corner Forum.**

 **Prompt: (dialogue) You're nowhere as witty as you think you are.**

 **Bit of a different format...**

 **A Diary by James Potter.**

7th November 1972

 _Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me._

Whoever said that had no idea what they were talking about.

I'm not going to start with 'dear diary'. That's girly and weird. My diary can't hear me anyway, right? But Mum told me that I should write a diary, and she bought me one, and I don't want to offend her. So here I am. My name is James Potter, I'm thirteen years old, and I'm writing in a _diary._

Oh, Merlin. If Sirius gets hold of this I'll never hear the end of it.

But I have to please Mum, so…

 _Anyway._

So I write about my day? I asked Lily Evans out to Hogsmeade. I know - I'm mad. But her hair is glossy and her eyes sparkle like … like emeralds. Call me a romantic, I don't care.

I keep having to reassure myself that no-one's actually going to read this. Okay, she refused. She refused and was rather rude about it.

How do I get her to go out with me? You're not going to give me advice - you're a diary. But I feel like I'm nothing. She doesn't even like me as a friend. Her words - they sting.

They sting worse than getting hit by a bludger. So maybe more than a sting.

And I'm stuck. Yeah, James Potter, third year Gryffindor, quidditch player, overconfident idiot (even I can admit that), is stuck. I don't know what to do, and I just feel … hopeless. Yeah, hopeless. Lily Evans hates me.

And her words hurt a lot more than any sticks or stones I've ever come across.

* * *

29th November 1972

It's cold today. The Scottish weather has finally revealed itself, and it's snowing. Not the kind of snow that you can have snowball fights in and make stupid snowmen. It's the kind of snow that melts the moment it touches the ground.

An army of perfect fluffy snowflakes, dying when they touch the grass.

I feel like a snowflake. Lily said I was a spoiled brat, that I'd grown up arrogant and been given whatever I like and all that. I feel delicate, so _so_ delicate that her words can hurt me like that. I build myself up to talk to her, and then I melt in despair when she replies.

Other than my failed love life, there's a lot going on. Sirius, Peter and I have decided to become animagi to help Remus through his transformations.

I should probably mention that. He's a werewolf. Albeit one who likes woolly jumpers and books and long games of chess, but he's a real werewolf. Good Lord, is that strange? I'm friends with a werewolf. But we know he hurts himself every month when he changes, so we're going to be animagi to help him. He won't bite us 'cause we'll be animals, and we'll distract him from his own blood.

It's terrible, isn't it? He's giving himself hideous scars every month, hungry for his own blood, and here I am, despairing for some girl. I'm pathetic.

* * *

18th December 1972

Lily Evans hates me. It's a fact. I threw a snowball at her and her Slytherin friend Snivellus (Severus Snape), and she freaked out, yelling and threatening to tell a teacher.

Honestly, her temper.

But she hates me and I've only just realised that she has even less chance of going out with me now. What will I do?

Why don't I tell you about her?

No, I won't. Nobody's reading this anyway, apart from maybe my future self.

(Hi, future self!)

All you need to know is that I like her. A lot. In _that_ way.

I'm talking too much about her, aren't I? Honestly, every entry in this stupid thing is about her.

Remus is getting worse. The nights are longer in winter, and with each transformation he's coming back all banged up. It's worse than last year, and from what I've heard, any other year too. It'll take years to be an animagus - how can I help him _now?_ Is there nothing I can do? I'm worried, and I'm not afraid to admit it. How much worse will it get? What about next year?

Sirius is acting weird. We're leaving to go back home tomorrow, and he's getting all quiet again. He always does this before the holidays. Does he not like being at home? He does complain about how annoying his mother is, and they are a stuffy old family. Whatever. He doesn't feel the need to speak about it, so it can't be too bad.

Peter is his usual self. Honestly, it's hard to get away from him!

* * *

6th February 1973

Happy New Year! I haven't written in here for a while. I'm really busy, and I need to keep this away from Sirius.

I've asked Lily out twice more, and she's said no both times. She seems to act differently around me than everyone else, like she's angrier, wanting to get away. She becomes offensive.

Honestly, am I that bad? She really does hate me, doesn't she?

Remus is definitely worse. Last moon, he had to stay in the hospital wing for a week, and he almost had to go to St Mungo's. But he didn't because apparently they're really biased about werewolves.

Why, though? They're just the same as us. Remus is the nicest person I know.

I'm still worried. I know how good Madam Pomfrey is, but it will certainly get worse. At least the nights are becoming a little shorter now.

We did a prank on the seventh year Ravenclaws, and they think it was the Prewetts! I won't say what it was (in case McGonagall gets hold of this and gives me detention), but I can tell you it was to do with books, nifflers, fanged frisbees, and some peculiar drawings - it was spectacular.

Talking of McGonagall, the teachers are already badgering on about exams. Seriously? It's _February._

I got a new broomstick for Christmas, and it's the fastest yet. I'm the only one in our year to have the Nimbus 1797, so I'll surely be scoring a lot of goals against Slytherin next week.

Wish me luck!

I really am losing my marbles. A diary can't _wish me luck._

* * *

8th February 1973

It's happened. Remus is in St Mungo's after last night's full moon. He sliced up his back on a rusty nail and gnawed his arm half off. I'm scared. I'm really scared.

* * *

18th February 1973

He's okay. It's all fine. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest, like everything's suddenly okay. But it's not. I told you it was getting worse. I told you.

* * *

25th April 1973

I asked Lily out. I was stupid. Remus is not doing well, Sirius is grumpy, and Peter's being bullied. Why did I have to go ask her out?

Now, on top of everything, I'm sad that she said no. I know that she'll keep refusing, but I keep asking her and I know I shouldn't, but…

She's pretty and I like her. Whatever hateful things she says, I can't stop liking her.

I wish I didn't. Like her, I mean. Is this my punishment? For being a terrible friend to Remus?

It could be. I deserve all of it.

* * *

September 2nd 1973

Fourth year. Yay, and all that. I'm not feeling it.

I've decided I'm not going to tell you useless things like pranks anymore. Oh, Merlin. There's no-one reading this, James. It's a _diary,_ and if Sirius gets hold of it, well…

Lets not think about that.

I'm not going to write useless things here. There's a war coming. Dad says so. I don't know what to think about that. Nobody else believes Dad, they say he's mad, but I do. I know my Dad, and if he says war's on the way, then it is.

It's selfish, but I hope I live through it. And the rest of the Marauders (we named ourselves that in May last year), too.

There've been disappearances and stuff. Nasty attacks by people called _Death Eaters._ Sounds evil, doesn't it? No-one likes to mention them, or their leader, Lord Voldemort, but I think fear of the name only increases the fear of the thing itself.

That was poetic. Don't take my line.

But I'm scared. And not just for me and my friends - for the whole wizarding world. Pessimistic? Maybe. Realistic? I think so.

War _is_ coming. I can feel it.

* * *

1st November 1973

I don't know how to say it, but it's terrible. Absolutely horrifying. Halloween. (Hallowe'en?)

It was a full moon on Halloween, and the Death Eaters loved it. They danced around London, cursing muggles and stuff. Dad says there was blood running in the gutters. Werewolves have joined Voldemort.

I remember in September when we came across Fenrir Greyback in the Forbidden Forest. He was vile.

I haven't been to see Remus yet, but I know it was a bad moon. What can you expect on a real full moon Halloween? It makes me think the future will not be good.

Why me? Why did I have to grow up now, in such a dark time? I wish it was someone else, but that's selfish, isn't it? I wish it wasn't me.

I don't want to grow up now, go into such a dark world, but I guess it has to be someone.

I can only pray that Remus isn't forced into doing something terrible like Fenrir Greyback's pack.

* * *

31st January 1974

I'm hiding.

I'll tell you what happened.

JP: Why shouldn't you fall in love with a chef, Evans?

LE: Go away, Potter.

JP: He'll dessert you.

LE: [cute eye roll] You're nowhere as witty as you think you are.

JP: You know, it's two weeks 'till Valentine's day, and I'm not a chef.

LE: [another eye roll]

Exit _**Lily Evans.**_

Sirius saw it all, and now he'll never stop laughing. Doesn't he understand that all her words were knives pressing into my skin? It doesn't just sting anymore. It hurts. It really, really hurts.

I know I said I wouldn't say anything useless, but this is something I need to say.

I think I'm in love with the only person who hates me.

* * *

14th February 1974

Lonely. It's okay when I don't like anyone, but now that I've realised that I like Evans, it hurts. It burns. I'm alone on Valentine's day. Remus is at chess club, Peter has detention, and Sirius actually found a girl to go to Hogsmeade with. I don't know who - some Hufflepuff from the year above.

I'm alone and I'm crying I don't know what to do with myself.

It's cruel and hateful, but I hope Lily Evans is alone too.

* * *

18th November 1974

Remus' mum is dead. She was the sweetest person I ever knew. He was pulled out of potions yesterday, and we found him crying in the dormitory. Remus never cries.

How can such cruel people exist in the world? Cruel enough to kill innocent people, to rip families apart.

It's the full moon tonight. It's rising in about three minutes, and I know it's going to be bad. It's always worse when Remus is sad or angry or scared.

It'll only continue - the deaths, I mean.

What is happening to the world?

* * *

29th December 1975

Merlin. I forgot about this diary for a whole year, but Oh, Merlin. Oh God am I glad I found it now. I need to write this down.

Good Lord, how do I explain this?

Sirius Black is currently unconscious in my bed. He's all banged up, with whip marks on his back and bruises on his face and he's shaking.

Remus brought him here this morning.

He ran away from home, the bloody idiot. He could've waited until school started and then come with us for the holidays, but instead he got himself beaten by his parents. I only really had a faint idea of his home life. I'd known they'd hit him, but the severity of his injuries now go beyond anything I could have imagined.

Mum says she thinks they used the cruciatus curse.

I'm scared for him. I find myself getting more and more bloody scared, and I want it to stop.

* * *

14th March 1976

Remus disappeared on the 10th - his own birthday. He came back in the evening all pale and angry.

Turns out he's been registered, branded like a criminal - there's a little number on his collarbone.

Werewolves are worth nothing to those people. Do they not realise that they do more damage than Remus Lupin ever could?

P.S. We became animagi back in fifth year, February I think. I'm a stag, Sirius is a dog, and Peter's a rat. We've been helping Remus since then.

* * *

September 3rd 1976

Remus was attacked on the day before school started. He's still in St Mungo's, drifting in and out of consciousness, his back torn up and his leg blown up and countless other dark curses were performed on him.

He's being targeted. People are looking for someone to blame for everything that's going on, and werewolves are the first in line.

People are scared, and they're lashing out. I'm scared. I'm really, really scared.

And this is it, I guess. Seventh year, and there was an attack on the train. Just a thousand kids on a train, no adults to protect us, riding through Scotland.

A student died.

I don't know how I'm going to cope any more.

The world is spiralling into madness, I swear. Every day, the _Prophet_ brings in another headline that speaks of death and pain.

Our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher has been captured by Voldemort.

We can't go to Hogsmeade any more, because it's been attacked several times.

Dumbledore is always away doing who-knows-what.

Sirius can't deal with the destruction his own family is causing.

Remus can't stop thinking about his future, or lack of it.

Peter is scared of his own shadow.

I'm crying as I write this. I can't cope. I can't bloody cope with everything that's going on outside, and helping my friends, and I swear I'll go mad after a year out in the world.

People are being pulled out of classes to be told their family is dead. A quarter of the students haven't turned up this year. Slytherins think they're in charge, and half of them are already signed up to be bloody Death Eaters.

The world has been turned upside down.

P.S. Stupid, I know, but I'm Head Boy. Lily Evans is Head Girl.

* * *

November 20th 1976

Dragonpox. Mum has dragonpox, and they're worried Dad's caught it too. It's a ten percent survival rate, and they're old. I know they won't last through the year.

At least they won't have to live through the war.

That's what I'm telling myself, but I can't bear to think about life without them. I love my parents, I really do, and…

Merlin, I can't write this. Oh, God.

* * *

December 2nd 1976

In the midst of a war, stressed and scared, I have a beacon of light.

Looking through this, I can't help but think how stupid I was to stress about Lily Evans and about Sirius finding a stupid diary. This diary has been becoming darker and darker, until those stupid things became my worries about death and pain and the future.

But I asked Lily out. We've been on good terms for a year, so I asked her out.

Yes. She said yes.

YES!

We went to Hogsmeade, and I think she enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed it. We had butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and we bought sweets at Honeydukes. She didn't even _mention_ Madam Puddifoot's, like half the girls do.

My heart is lightened. I finally went out with Lily Evans, and we're _together._ She's my _girlfriend._

I can't help but think that it's the calm before the storm.

* * *

July 23rd

I don't know how to start.

We're leaving. Tomorrow.

Leaving Hogwarts.

I can't really process it. Lily and I have bought a flat, and Sirius is living nearby. I know Remus has financial difficulties so I'm paying rent for his flat. Peter says he wants to stay another couple years with his Mum, and I think I would if I could.

I don't like to think too much about my parents. That's my coping method: don't think about it, but write it down. But my parents. They're at St Mungo's. They're dying. The healers said they have another week at most.

So I'm leaving Hogwarts, and soon to be an orphan. My whole world is dying all at once. My heart is cracking under the strain.

I have Sirius and Remus and Peter.

And Lily. I know it's soon to be living together, but we know there's a chance we won't be alive in a few years time.

Remus says he'll never get a job. That no-one will take him because he's a werewolf. He's being really grumpy about it.

Sirius thinks that _he'll_ never get a job, but honestly, he doesn't need one. He's still loaded after his Uncle left him a fortune.

Peter is comfortable, having already been accepted at the owl post office near his house.

Me? I'm joining the Order of the Phoenix, and Lily says she wants to too. I think I'll tell Sirius and Remus about it, seeing that they're destined to be unemployed. Maybe Peter might be interested too. And Marlene and Dorcas … it's meant to be secret. Oops.

The Order is a secret organisation whose mission is to defeat Voldemort. The Ministry is covered in spies, so the Order do all the important work for them. So I'm joining.

I want to help. I want to fight.

P.S. I just wanted to say, I'll probably never write in this diary again. I'm not a child any more.

* * *

October 30th 1981

I feel the need to write again. I am anxious, and my hands shake with cooped up energy. I need to do _something_ to fill the time.

I'll fill you in: we all joined the Order (Sirius, Remus, Peter, Lily, Marlene, Dorcas and I) and we've been on mission upon mission in the last few years.

Marlene's dead. They got her whole family. Dorcas is dead. They say Voldemort got her personally.

A whole lot of other people are dead.

There's a spy. Someone in the Order is a spy.

We had a baby. He's called Harry and he's one year old and he's sitting in his for next to me now.

We're in hiding. Voldemort's after us. After Harry. Because of a prophecy.

I said it all very factually there, because I can't bear to think about some things. Some things, when I think about them, burrow in my mind until I can't function. So I'm not going into detail. But I do need to write them, however blandly.

Despite the hunt for us, we're safe. There's a fidelius charm on the house, and no-one could guess that _Peter_ 's the Secret Keeper.

Even Remus. We think he's the spy, and it breaks my heart to write that down. Remus, who likes chocolate a little too much. Remus, who can spend hours wrapped up in a woolly jumper, reading. Remus, who I love, who we all love.

A spy.

But why? Remus Lupin would never-

I shouldn't think about it. I'll only get angry and then once the anger's gone, there's only sadness. I've been through it all before.

I just really wanted to say, if something happens to me - anything - whoever's reading this, make sure Harry and Lily are okay, if they're out there. I can't let them die.

But we're still safe. Of course we're safe. We'll lie low here until the war's over, and then everyone can forget about war and pain and madness and spies. We can live a normal life as a family.

But I don't know what's going on outside. Sirius is away on a mission (coming back tomorrow though) and Peter's lying low too. I can't trust Remus with the Secret. My blindness is painful, and I jump at every chance to know what's going on. It's like we're in our own little world in here, locked safely away. A part of me longs for the action of the war, but I know that's wrong. I just want to _know._ Know what's happening in the big world. All my friends could have died and I wouldn't even know.

I'll write again. It helps to calm me, and I'm bored of sitting around and waiting, so I'll be writing very soon. Until next time,

A very anxious James Potter.


	14. Branded (RL)

**Hey! I'm back with some Remus-ness. Reviews would be nice (thank you so much to all you amazing reviewers)!**

 **Is this angsty enough?**

* * *

 **Werewolf Registry**

 **March 10, 1977**

"Lupin?"

The woman was short and squat, with a tight bob of black hair, pale skin with rosy cheeks, a button nose and a scowl twisting her red lips. Her voice was a snide murmur, as if she'd rather be anywhere else, and her beady brown eyes were staring at the small group of people in the waiting room.

Remus wanted to kill her.

His control was spinning away from him with every second in this accursed room.

The room itself was small, with peeling brown wallpaper and spiders clustered in the corners. There were only two other people - a timid looking man with wide eyes and a woman who glared at everyone and everything, her unnaturally sharp teeth bared in a snarl.

Both of them bared the tell-tale scars of lycanthropy.

Neither of them were young, because werewolves were only required to be registered at age seventeen. Neither of them were old, because werewolves are known to die before reaching any age that high.

Remus stood with as much confidence as he could muster, and followed the squat woman through the door.

She gestured to a hard chair on the closest side of the desk, and sat herself on the other side, the chair placed as far away from his as possible, as if he bore a disease that spread through air.

"This is your first registry?" She snapped.

"Yes." His voice rang dully around the silence of the room.

"Can I confirm your name?"

"Remus Lupin."

"Age?"

"Seventeen."

"And you were first bitten when?"

The words burned bitterly on his tongue, but he spat them out with the same flat voice as before. "Age four. Seventeenth of January 1965."

"By which werewolf?"

Yet again he choked on the words, saying them with too much force. "Fenrir Greyback."

"And have you ever passed on your affliction?"

"No."

She started scribbling on the papers in front of her. Remus craned his neck to glance at the sheet.

 _Name of beast, Age of beast, Date of Turning, Name of beast who bit it, Number of people bitten, Code._

 _Code._ Remus repeated bitterly in his head. He was to be branded like a criminal.

Sure enough, the scratching of the quill ceased, and the woman reached into her robes, pulling out a wand stubby enough to match her stature.

"Collarbone." She said, and Remus pulled down the collar of his shirt.

She frowned. "There's no space." And it was true - Remus' shoulder was a mangled mass of twisted flesh and scars.

"I'm sorry. That was where I was bitten."

She sighed, as if it was his fault Fenrir Greyback had gnawed on his shoulder, as if it was his fault his body was covered in scars, as if it was his fault that he tore himself up every month.

"Other collar then."

He obliged, and the woman extended her arm across the desk, refusing to move her body any closer to the beast.

Finding an unblemished patch of skin, she gave her wand a sharp jab, and suddenly there was a sharp pain flaring from his collarbone. He hissed, but didn't make any other reference to the pain.

When she brought her wand back, he adjusted his shirt, not sparing a glance for the ugly black mark on his skin.

"Try not to bite it off."

She dismissed him, and he left with his head lowered.

The werewolves looked at him with understanding, and the woman with the teeth nodded to him as he passed through.

He nodded back, amber eyes shining with barely restrained anger.

Once he was out of the Ministry, he wandered the muggle streets, head pounding with a terrible bitterness and shoulder still burning.

He felt weak, his head light, his stomach churning.

He was marked now. Registered. Tagged like a dog. But he didn't let himself yell and shout and rip things apart. He was only an animal anyway - nothing would make any difference.

* * *

 **Hogwarts**

Remus returned to school that night, greeting his friends with a weak smile as he entered the dormitory.

Sirius looked up from a piece of parchment, "Hey Moony."

James frowned, "Where have you been?"

Peter stood up, "You missed your seventeenth birthday, Remus."

Remus just stood by the door. "I had to go to my Aunt's funeral."

"I thought your Aunt hated you?" Sirius said.

"She did." He said flatly. He couldn't be bothered to think up a reasonable excuse.

And Remus walked over to his bed, legs aching, shoulder still stiff. The eyes of his friends followed him across the room, watching his tired feet and slumped shoulders and pale skin with concern.

"You're not looking good."

"Thanks."

"Happy Birthday." His only friends murmured in confusion.

And he fell onto his bed without replying, closing the drapes behind him and he just lay there, fully dressed, until the chatter of the Marauders died away into silence.

He was grateful of his friends, he really was. He was beyond grateful that some people, at least, loved him and valued him as _human._ But at that moment he realised that he didn't deserve them. He didn't deserve their kindness any more than the other two werewolves who had sat in that room with him. They had no friends, yet here he was, feeling sorry for himself, when he had three.

How did he even _have_ friends? How could an animal - however tame - have friends at all?

He lay there, silent and still, waiting for the sun to rise.

* * *

 **March 11th**

Sirius went back to the dormitory from breakfast. Remus' hangings were still drawn around his bed, and there was no movement from inside.

Swiping aside the drapes, Sirius stood above him. "You alright, mate?"

He was already awake, just lying on top of the covers in yesterday's clothes. He really didn't look good. He was pale and had deep bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept all night.

"Fine." Remus growled, "What's the time?"

Sirius frowned. "Five to nine."

Remus yelped, leaping out of bed. "Why didn't you wake me?" He hissed.

"I just did."

The werewolf snarled and snatched up some clothes, striding into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.

Sirius stood, shell shocked, because Remus Lupin - _Remus bloody Lupin_ \- hadn't slept all night, had _growled_ at him, and had slammed the door.

Something was very wrong.

* * *

Remus was getting changed when he remembered. His eyes drooped, longing for a wink of sleep, but he fought back the fatigue. He didn't know why he was so angry at everything, so confused and shocked.

Until he saw it. Yesterday's shirt off, today's in his hand, and he glanced in the mirror.

He choked, staring - glaring - at the mirror.

On his collarbone, a dark patch against his pale skin, nestled among the scars, was a brand. A big dark brand.

 _17523_

A number. Just a number. Was that all he was?

Was that his entire identity? From now on, a five-digit code summed up his whole existence. His whole life, his identity, his memories (good and bad), were reduced to five numbers and burnt into his skin.

His eyes were drawn to it. He couldn't stop staring, though he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to tear his eyes away, cover it up forever, rip it apart, but he kept _looking_ at it.

He kept bloody looking.

A number. Like a prisoner or an animal or a test subject.

Sirius' voice cut through the silence.

"Remus? Classes are starting _now._ "

Remus just sat against the wall, curling up into himself. He shouldn't be in a class of normal people. If they knew, if they saw the ugly black mark on his collarbone, they'd hate him. All of them. Some might want him dead.

They would forget Remus Lupin. They would forget that name, and anything he'd said to them, anything he'd helped them with or any times he made them laugh. They'd forget that he was a better wizard than most of them. All they'd think was 17523.

That was all he was to them.

"Remus?"

 _Try not to bite it off._

Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to bite the bloody thing off in human form. He wanted to rip it apart.

But no. He couldn't. He didn't have the right because he wasn't worth anything.

His shirt was still clutched in his hand, and suddenly he stood, bringing his fist up to the mirror, right where he could see the brand was. It smashed, pieces of reflective glass falling away or embedding themselves into his knuckles.

Tears sprung in his eyes from pain he didn't feel.

His reflection was a mass of glass, his body appearing to have broken into a million pieces, irreparably.

He still stood, staring at the cracked mirror and his bleeding knuckles and the distorted reflection. He could still see a black mark through the cracks, and when he moved, it came from beneath the shattered glass, dancing in his cloudy vision, unblemished, mocking him.

* * *

Sirius was getting worried now. Remus wasn't coming out.

"Remus?"

Then a crash, the high ringing of splintering glass met his ears.

"Remus, what's going on in there? Open the door or I'll unlock it myself."

Silence.

"C'mon, Moony. What's wrong?"

Not another sound. Sirius started to open his mouth, to speak again, but Remus' voice, harsh and bitter, rang out first.

"Nothing!" His voice was packed full of raw anger. "Nothing's bloody _wrong_! Just go _away,_ AWAY!"

"Remus, I'm coming in."

"No. No, leave me here. You go."

Sirius brought out his wand and unlocked the door with a quick flick of the wrist.

Inside, sitting in a tight ball in front of the cracked mirror, was Remus. His knuckles were bloody, and his scars were in plain sight, but Sirius didn't look at that.

"Remus-"

"Say whatever you like. I'm just an animal who has to be tracked, a criminal who has to be branded. I'm _nothing."_

Sirius just looked at him sadly. "You're not nothing. You're my friend. You're my best friend."

Remus snorted. "Friend," he muttered viciously.

And then he started crying. Remus almost never cried, not since his mother died, and before that when they discovered his condition. His crying consisted of great wracking sobs that shook his battered frame, and tears pouring out of his eyes.

"Remus, you're so much more than a number."

He kept crying.

And Sirius sat next to him, and let Remus lean on him.

Because sometimes, even the bravest of Gryffindors need a shoulder to cry on.


	15. The Prank (ALL)

**I couldn't resist. I just had to write this scene, however overdone it is.**

 **14 Nov. Updated! I looked over this and realised that I really don't like it, so here is a better (I hope) version.**

* * *

 **The Prank**

James ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, ignoring the tree roots hitting his face, ignoring the chill of the wintry air.

He had tripped, and he was bleeding and sweating and choking on his breath, but he wasn't bothered about that. He didn't have time to be bothered.

The moonlight gently faded into darkness as he ran further.

His breath came in puffs of twirling dragon smoke before him.

He ran, feet pounding, pounding, pounding, legs aching, aching, aching, heart beating, beating, beating.

He could only hope he'd make it there in time.

And there! He heard something. A shuffle of feet, the creak of a trapdoor, a heavy breath that wasn't his own. A shape darker than the usual darkness, but it was far away and slowly pulling itself upwards.

"WAIT! Snape! You have to stop!"

James just saw a flash of Severus Snape's pale face before it was gone and the trapdoor closed behind it.

He kept going, closing the short distance in three strides. Upon reaching the trap door, he pulled it open, jumping up through the hole, and he stopped, staring through his cracked glasses.

A werewolf - a proper, fully-grown werewolf - stood over Snape.

James had never seen Moony before. Not in this form, anyway. James wasn't at the stage where he could comfortably stay transformed as a stag for more than an hour, so he had yet to accompany Remus to the Shack. Now, he knew the focus of Remus' pain.

He knew why Remus called himself a monster, because, though he hated to admit it, this _was_ a beast. Great big fangs protruded from its mouth, dripping with its own blood mixed with saliva. Honey brown fur rippled along its body, matted with thick red liquid near the shoulder. Its mouth twisted into a snarl of anger; its eyes glowed with hunger; its claws dug into the floorboards beneath it.

This wasn't Remus. It couldn't be - he could never hold that hatred that glinted in the Wolf's eyes.

Snape was frozen, staring into those same amber eyes, leaning back a little, terror leaking from every pore of his body, mouth wide in a silent scream.

Woken from his shock, James leapt forward, dragging Snape away from the Wolf and towards the trapdoor just as Moony pounced on the spot Snape had previously occupied.

The Slytherin's heels scraped against the floor. He clutched at James' arm.

"Come _on,_ Snape! Get off and run!"

There was no time to transform into Prongs, and James was still a novice in that form anyway, so he dragged the hook-nosed Slytherin with him - the human him - aware that he had only seconds to do something. _Anything_.

The werewolf was coming again, prowling menacingly towards them, growling coming from deep in its throat. Blood covered its muzzle.

Whose blood? James hoped it wasn't Snape's, but he couldn't know in the chaos that had just occurred.

In another frantic second, they clambered into the tunnel and the trap door slammed shut behind them.

And they were running. Running and running, even though they were safe now, even though they hated each other, they ran together towards the exit.

Through the maze of tree roots, out past the whomping willow, laying on the frosty grass, panting.

The stars twinkled above them. The night swallowed their breath. The full moon just sat there, mocking them.

James finally spoke, "You _idiot_. I thought you were meant to be cunning? All I can see from that is stupidity."

Snape came to his senses, "A werewolf. _Lupin_ is a werewolf."

James sat still.

"Merlin, a _werewolf._ A great stinking beast like that in a _school_ , with children. Idiotic decision on Dumbledore's part. Lupin. Pathetic little _Lupin._ "

"How did you get in anyway? You shouldn't be able to get through."

"Don't pretend you don't know! You set me up. It was that maniac, Black! He told me to come here. Trying to get me killed. And you were in on it, weren't you, Potter? Only came to your senses when you realised Lupin would get in trouble for it. Oh, it'll be expelled for sure. Maybe executed."

"What?"

"Don't pretend to be innocent. You set it all up, some nasty prank of yours."

"What did you say?" James choked, "About Sirius?"

"I said that he told me. I said you sent him to do that so that you wouldn't get blamed."

"I don't know what you mean? What happened with Sirius?"

"Now you're denying it! Call yourself a Gryffindor, but you can't even take the blame!"

"Shut up about things you don't know. We're going to the headmaster's office to sort everything out. I'm sick of you lying to me about these things."

"Oh, are we? So you can spread your lies about saving me? Not a chance chance, Potter. I'm returning to my common room, and in the morning, Lupin will no longer be a student at this school."

"No, Mr. Snape, you are not." Came the tight voice of Professor McGonagall, "Come with me immediately. Both of you."

* * *

"I am troubled by the events of this evening," Professor Dumbledore started. "There has been atrocious behaviour by both Mr. Black and Mr. Snape, and a noble act by Mr. Potter."

James couldn't even feel proud that Albus Dumbledore had called him noble. There was just anger beating around his head, bouncing off every surface like a ping-pong ball.

"I have heard all of your stories, and I am giving Mr. Snape detention every evening for three months for his stupidity and for his provocation of Mr. Black. You, Mr. Black, will be suspended until the end of the Christmas Holidays. I will make it clear that you are not to repeat such behaviour. You almost had one student killed. Perhaps two, if we think about the nature of Mr. Lupin's condition and the prejudice that surrounds it. Mr Potter, that will be thirty house points for such a brave action. I will speak to Mr. Lupin in the morning. You may all go. Mr. Black, please pack your things and return here after breakfast tomorrow to be sent home."

The boys nodded gravely. Snape looked almost as angry as James felt, his pale skin reddening and his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring. Sirius looked dull, his eyes dim and his skin pale and his hands shaking.

He deserved it.

James glared at both of them, and stormed off.

As he turned the corner, a voice called behind him, not even a shadow of its usual boisterous humour in the tone. In fact, the noise was so insignificant that James, in his anger, nearly missed it. "James, wait-"

He didn't even turn around. He just stopped, trying to free himself of anger.

It didn't work.

"Don't talk to me. I can't handle it right now. And don't even _think_ about talking to Remus, okay? Now leave me alone."

He heard a coupe footsteps behind him, and added, "I hope you're ashamed. I hope you feel terrible. You should, Sirius. Do you feel nothing at all? I wouldn't be surprised." James gave a bitter laugh, "How did I ever call you my friend?"

Silence. Just silence. Silence that tingled sourly on James' tongue. Silence that sucked the life out of the air.

Mere seconds, but it felt like hours.

He knew when it was over. It wasn't the footsteps that gave it away, but the looseness of his heart, like something had been cut away and was floating off, soaring out of reach. Or sinking. Sinking out of his reach and into Darkness.

He needed to think. He needed to purge his head of all the terrible thoughts that resided there, let go of everything. He needed to be away from all the people. Their choking, suffocating presences were too much, their watching eyes too sharp.

Up staircases, down staircases, avoiding Mr. Pringle, across corridors, doubling back, passing through secret passageways, up and up and up, stopping. Looking with dead eyes, out across the grounds from where he now stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

The night was clear and cold, the full moon staring into his soul from where it sat smugly in the sky. Mocking. Mocking him and his anger and his friends. Laughing. He could almost hear it, the ringing laughter cutting through the night sky, reaching the stars and the clouds and the Earth.

He cursed under his breath, not caring that swearing at the moon was futile, not caring that it would change nothing. He knew all that. He just needed to swear at something.

And he did. He raged and paced and muttered under his breath. He said everything he wanted to say to Sirius, imagined everything he wanted to do. He punched the wall, screamed in his mind, curled in the corner, cried and cried and cried.

James didn't often cry, but he let himself now.

He let the anger ebb away with every vulgar word until it was just sadness and pain and disappointment, charging around his mind, filling the space that anger had vacated.

He stood at the edge of the Tower, letting the wind brush against him, letting the chill awaken his mind to the real world.

If Snape had died, Remus would be expelled. Remus would be put in Azkaban. Remus would be executed. Werewolves were currently classed as 'beasts' by the Ministry of Magic, and therefore were allowed to be put down. Like a naughty dog.

And if Remus wasn't killed? He would live in the world, a werewolf with no OWLs or NEWTs and therefore with no chance of getting a job. A werewolf who would have to live forever with the pain of knowing he was a murderer, and that it was his best friend's fault.

What had Sirius been thinking? Did he not stop for one moment and think about his friend who he'd be sentencing to a life of loneliness in Azkaban? He had always been reckless, but this was on a whole different scale. This wasn't sneaking into Hogsmeade to steal some firewhiskey; this was something very close to murder. This was betrayal. And that was the greatest pain of all: one Marauder betraying another. _That_ was too much.

* * *

Sirius lay on his bed, still fully clothed and shaking. He was angry at no-one but himself.

Snape had provoked him, he knew that, but what Sirius had retaliated with was wrong. Very, very wrong, and he knew that more than anything else. He had been so _stupid._ Stupid not to think of the consequences, stupid not to resist, stupid not to stop and breathe. Just breathe. Breathe and think.

And now his friends hated him and he was being sent to his family weeks early. His family, who wouldn't care what he had done (they'd probably applaud him); they'd just use his suspension as an excuse to beat him more.

 _You need to set a good example! What do they think of us now? Suspended!_ His mother would say, ranting about respectability and what disappointment he was.

But didn't he deserve that? He _was_ a disappointment; maybe his mother had only been telling him the truth that no-one else could see. Didn't he deserve the pain and the punishments? Perhaps some discipline would do him good.

Because if things had gone only a little differently, Remus would be a murderer. And it would be all Sirius' fault.

He was scared. Scared out of his mind that he was spending over four weeks with his hag of a mother, without friends to send letters to, without any comforting thoughts to occupy his mind. He'd go mad in there.

Mad. Seriously, God-honest mad.

He'd seen Bellatrix talk of the Dark Lord, a wildfire blazing in her eyes. He'd felt his father's rage in a hundred punishments, and his mother's in scoldings that rocked the whole house. He had spent hours trying to figure out what was wrong with all the portraits, but it turned out that the screaming was normal. The madness. The Black madness.

Perhaps he'd finally reached it.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of a chance that he'd be forgiven for his mistake. Maybe everything would turn out okay.

There was a creak as the door opened. James walked in, his head lowered, face swarmed with cuts and bruises. He looked at Sirius for a second with nothing but sadness in his eyes, then turned away again, getting ready for bed as if the other boy wasn't there at all.

Sirius would've preferred it if James had punched him. The silence was too much.

* * *

Remus woke. Light flashed in his eyes. Pain coursed through his body, flowed through his veins, churned in his stomach. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Bad moon.

He could feel dried blood and wet blood and blood and blood and blood and cream on some bruises and a potion flooding through his system. Gentle hands were on his leg, wrapping bandages around and around and around.

His head ached and spun, spinning round and round in wild circles, and he struggled to think about what had happened. Why was it so bad? It was November, so long nights, which meant longer time to hurt himself. But he'd only felt this bad once or twice before, and he'd always known beforehand.

Now? He had thought this moon might be okay.

And then he cried out, his voice a harsh rasp, only realising why he had done so a couple seconds later - pain. More pain, in a great wave that washed over him.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

 _PAIN._

Someone was tugging on his knee, doing something to it.

"Remus?"

It was wrenched to one side, and he cried out again, but his leg felt right now. His knee had probably been dislocated.

"Remus, can you hear me?"

Tighter bandages, now. Someone - probably Madam Pomfrey, when he thought about it - was wrapping bandages around the now straightened joint.

"Remus, come on!"

He processed the voices now, realising that he was being called, and that it had been going on for a while. He groaned, cracking his eyes open once again, wincing at the light...

...but something was blocking the bright light, something familiar and welcome.

"James?" He rasped, the words grating painfully in his throat, before coughing and coughing and coughing. He couldn't stop himself, because his throat was dry, and …

… oh, lovely. That was good. A drizzle of cool water was poured down his raw throat.

"Oh, good. Don't speak, okay? You're injured. Like, _really_ injured." James' voice said, but it was wrong. Remus couldn't quite…

… oh. Oh, right. James was … angry? Sad? Something was wrong.

"James…"

"Shhh. Don't speak."

And then Madam Pomfrey touched his shoulder and the world dissolved into a cacophony of pain.

* * *

Sirius was swept up in the green flames, and spat out into the drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place.

Walburga Black stood by the fire, a single elegant eyebrow raised. She stayed silent for a moment (Sirius hated the silence. Why couldn't it just be loud?) before speaking. "I read the letter. It was rather vague, but it has come to my attention that you were suspended after trying to kill a student in your year."

"Yes, Mother."

"And this student was a Slytherin."

"Yes, Mother."

She strode forwards and grabbed his hair, dragging him after her. Down the stairs, scrambling after his mother so he didn't trip. Her hold on his hair never softened, her hand clenched around his silky locks in a vice-like grip. Down the corridor, trying to stay on his feet. Into the cellar, slammed onto the floor in a heap.

His scalp stung. His shoulder ached where he'd landed on it.

"I expected better from the heir to this house. I expected better from the son I raised. You are dirtying our name and I will not stand for it. You'll stay in here until I decide to let you out, so keep your mouth _shut._ "

And the trap door swung closed, leaving Sirius alone in the ominous darkness, feeling like a child who had been scolded. He sat, weeping bitter tears, because he was so, so _stupid_ to think that everything would be alright.

* * *

Peter was confused. He was feeling confused a lot lately, and James wouldn't explain himself ( _again_ ), so poor Pete was left in the dark.

James wasn't looking good. He was strangely pale; circles had formed under his eyes from lack of sleep; his smile had been noticeably absent all week. He wasn't acting quite right either - always angry or dull, and nothing in between.

Remus still hadn't recovered. In fact, he'd only just woken up properly. A few times, he'd drifted into consciousness only to fall away again, never speaking or moving. Just yelling. There'd been a lot of yelling and it sounded painful.

Peter had been wary of Remus ever since his secret had come out (not that anyone had noticed this wariness - no-one ever noticed Peter Pettigrew), but he still felt sorry for the other boy. There's something about living in the same room as someone for several years that makes you feel connected, however much they scare you.

And it was all about Sirius. Peter _really_ didn't like Sirius, from his years of cruel jokes and better-than-you attitude. But this time, Sirius had upset James, and the magnificent duo had somehow, fallen out. That was a first.

Sirius was suspended and James was all wrong and Remus was hurt and Peter was ever so confused. What was he to do now?

After years of pain and struggling, the Marauders had finally, inevitably, broken apart.

* * *

Remus had been told what had happened by James while Peter stood idly in the corner. It was wrong to be three. Wrong for one of them to be absent. Wrong for one Marauder to talk negatively of another.

They were brothers.

 _Had_ been brothers.

And Remus didn't know what to think. At first it had been anger.

Anger at Sirius, of course, for revealing it.

Anger at Snape, who had seen him.

Anger at himself, for being a bloody werewolf.

His fault.

All his fault.

And that was the next emotion - hatred. At that moment he hated himself with such vehemence, with such clarity that he focused on it, let it take him over.

He didn't really know how any of this was his fault, but it was. Of course it was! He was a werewolf. He hurt himself. He hurt others. All he caused was pain and misery. He made the other Marauders become animagi, he put Snape in danger. He was a werewolf, and that was the end of it.

But hatred was futile, he realised eventually, rather pointless, and he couldn't even find a reason that it was his fault at all, so that changed too.

Fear. He hated it. He was afraid of Fenrir Greyback and afraid of hurting people and afraid of failure. He was afraid of what he could do, what he couldn't control. Remus liked to be in control, and the Wolf took that away from him.

He could do anything and not realise until the moon set. He could kill and hurt, even Turn someone else. He almost had. He had been impossibly close to ruining someone else's life as well as his own, leaving them to bear the same cure he did.

Fear.

And he was afraid for Sirius. Remus couldn't forgive him, not yet, but he could pity him. He knew how bad Sirius' parents were, how much he hated them. He felt a terrible aching pity for Sirius, who was alone now, no friends to send owls to, no loving parents to tell him that everything was going to be alright.

Somewhere inside Remus, he wanted Sirius back. Because no matter how much the incident had hurt him, this hurt more. This fear, this distance, this terrible uncertainty.

The Marauders should be together, and a single mistake shouldn't destroy that, no matter how ghastly the outcome could have been.

But he pushed that thought deeper inside of him, because he needed to brood and he needed to be angry and he needed that little bit of fear to keep himself human.

* * *

Sirius had been in the cellar for days. He'd had a little bit of water, conjured from his wand, but food was impossible, and his stomach was growling violently.

He had gotten used to the dark, and was soon able to navigate the inky blackness without using _lumos_ to light the way, feeling his way around various barrels and bottles and boxes.

He may be stuck in a cellar, but he still didn't want to be charged for underage magic, so he kept wand use to a minimum.

His mother had come down once, with no food or freedom. Just yelled threats and an awful lot of discipline via the cruciatus curse.

It seemed Mother had beaten him to madness. She was truly crazy, screaming and shooting curses and occasionally stopping to slap him hard across the face. The pain was unimaginable, but somehow even that was washed away by the excruciating guilt.

He just sat around all day, the seconds stretching into minutes which gave way to miserable hours. Every hour, he lost another ounce of hope.

He was truly going mad, doing nothing but sit or pace or listen at the trap door or trying to summon some food. Or maybe, just hoping to be let out.

Yeah, right.

But soon enough he just lay on the stone floor, doing nothing, just brooding and sinking deeper into his mind, letting himself fall down, down, down into a deep well of despair.

Because he deserved it all. He deserved every piece of it after what he'd done.

He stared into the darkness, wondering: was it worth it? Was this life worth living if every step was riddled with pain? If he no longer had any friends to light the way?

The darkness was terrible and beautiful. So absolute. It was just blackness. Not a single strip of light, not even a flash of grey. Sirius' own mind was split, raging a terrible was between family and friends, Light and Dark. He didn't want to, but he was slowly being dragged into the Darkness, never to return. He didn't want to. He wanted his friends, but actions like what he had done … he could feel himself falling.

Then he heard the click, click, click of high heels, the opening of the trap door, a shining sliver of light.

"Out. Your father is coming home tomorrow. Neaten yourself up, eat a little, and keep your little blood traitor mouth shut. I will tell him why you were suspended."

He was out, and allowed food, but all he felt now was dread, filing his heart with its dark rhythm.

Father was not going to be happy.

* * *

 **[What happens next follows on from something covered at the end of 'Respectable', which is chapter 2 of this collection. If you haven't already, read that and it'll tell you everything you need to know!**

* * *

Christmas Holidays, January 3rd to be precise, and James was trying to move on from the events of November 29th. It had been a month and four days since the Prank (as he called it, with a capital P), and Remus was at home recovering, James was at Potter Manor, and Peter was at his own home. Without Sirius here to laugh and to talk and to create mischief, James felt very much alone.

There was an empty space where the other boy always slept in when he visited. There was the bannister they had slid down every morning, the brooms they had ridden on together, the seat that was always reserved for him. Each of them had brought anger at the beginning of the holiday. Now it was just sadness.

What friends they had been. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.

The two had been thick as thieves, keeping secrets large small, pranking the rest of the student body with everything they had. Which was an awful lot: together, there were no boundaries, nothing to stop them. No limit.

Now? James could hardly aspire to get out of bed.

A yell from downstairs. A loud knock on the door. James leapt up. _Something_ to get his mind off his own misery.

Down the stairs, across the hall, open the door-

"Remus?"

Remus stood outside the door, supporting something in his arms.

"He's injured, James. We have to help him."

There was a second in which James wanted to say 'no'. A single, terrible second that included him refusing to help.

"Bring him in."

Remus talked as they dragged him to the living room.

"He's not good at all. Came to my house last night all banged up - cuts on his back, bruises on his stomach, residue of Dark curses. He said he was fine, and I cleaned him up, still fine, until we flooed to your outhouse, and suddenly, he was down, all curled up on the floor and screaming. I reckon it's a late reacting curse set off by the floo. Nothing physical as far as I can see, so that should be fixed up easily."

"And the other wounds?"

They set Sirius' form on the sofa, and James' heart clenched at the sight of his pale skin and closed eyes and the blood. There was lots of blood.

"They're more worrying. He's been beaten badly, and the bruises on his stomach don't look good at all. He has three cracked ribs. He says he's dizzy, and there're a couple bruises on his face. James, even before the new curse was activated, I felt something Dark. He's had some sort of terrible curse put on him, one that affects the mind." Here, Remus quietened, "I looked it up, and the symptoms seems awfully similar to those of the Cruciatus curse."

James sat by Sirius' feet. "Was it wrong not to forgive him? Maybe we could have helped-"

"No, James. The Blacks are too powerful. Anyway, it had to be like this. He had to be beaten out, not taken away."

"But-"

"Now he's free. From his ramblings, it sounds like they've disowned him."

"Oh. Where will he stay?"

"I was thinking the same thing."

"He can't live on his own," James said, "He's not of age yet. Obviously he can't live with you. You have enough problems without him to think about. Peter's mum won't let him anywhere near her house after last time, so I guess it's me."

"And you're fine with that?" Remus looked concerned, one finger idly brushing Sirius' hair out of his face, "I know you were angry-"

"And you're not."

"No, I'm not."

There was silence for a moment, both of the conscious boys looking at their injured friend.

"Well, I'll get past it. You're the one who should be angry, and you don't seem to care-"

"I care. Of course I care! One of my best friends betrayed me. I would've been put down like a dog if I'd killed Snape, or locked in Azkaban until I died. But the thing is, it didn't happen. Sirius made a stupid mistake, but he told you where Snape was going, didn't he? He alerted the headmaster. I heard he looked awful afterwards. Peter said he cried all night. And then he was sent to his parents' and beaten half to death. Right now, he needs our support. We can talk to him later about the incident, but for now, he probably has a hundred problems that we aren't qualified to identify. You need to get your mum, and we're going to help our friend. 'Cause that's what Marauders do."

* * *

Severus Snape sat alone in the fifth year Slytherin boys' dormitory. He let his mind narrow on the Incident from the month before. He let himself remember the great dirty creature that had stood over him, the boy who had told him where to go, and the boy who had saved him. He let himself plot against those three boys and their pathetic, fat companion, Peter Pettigrew.

He would not forgive and he would not forget. Not ever.


	16. Portraits (SB)

**Portraits**

 **I've finally woken up and updated. I really need ideas now for future chapters so PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE review or PM me with advice and ideas or prompts.**

 **Not sure what I think of this. It's all chopped up, so a bit fractured.**

 **Because none of you seemed to like The Prank, I've taken your advice and edited it a LOT, so if you weren't happy and wanted a better version, please tell me whether it's improved now.**

 **Enjoy some serious Siriusness now….**

* * *

Sirius Black III walked up the stairs after his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He held his head low and his spine straight in an attempt to look respectable.

As if that was even possible after the events of the past year.

He was back. Back at number twelve Grimmauld Place, his childhood home. After only a year away, his entire view had changed. Perhaps he had once loved this place - a grand seven-storey mansion hidden within muggle London, a maze of secret passageways and peculiar rooms - but now he looked at the expensive wallpaper and the vases and the chandeliers, and he was only disgusted. He was completely ashamed of his heritage … not that he'd ever be brave enough to say that to his mother.

Each step was a step closer to the relative comfort of his room, away from his mother and father and Regulus and Kreacher and the cold watchfulness of the house.

And the portraits. They hung around him, each pair of icy grey eyes piercing his soul, each head of black hair turning to watch him. They were the very essence of the family, their lives captured and preserved and placed on the wall in frames of glittering gold. Their stares were cold and hard and unpleasant. They made Sirius' skin crawl, his head itch, his stomach lurch.

He tried to ignore them, he really did. But it was hard. Their voices crowed around him, echoing around the narrow corridors, impossible to block out.

"Oh, look at the little Gryffindor," Elladora Black snarled, "He won't last long."

Belvina Black seemed to agree, "Yes, he'll be out soon. The sorting always knows the bad egg."

Sirius kept going, trying to block out his ancestors with his mind, fight off their hateful words.

"I wonder where he'll go," added Phineas Nigellus in a haughty drawl, "Maybe the muggle world? He seems to love them enough."

Sirius was scared. As much as the house watched him and his parents hit him and the portraits laughed at him, he didn't want to be reduced to a smoking hole on the tapestry. He didn't want to be alone.

"Yes, he'll fit in there. He never was good enough to be with us respectable family members. I heard all his friends are _mudbloods!_ "

"How did such a noble family come to this? In my day, he'd be killed the moment he was sorted into that dreadful house."

"Dirtying of the blood, Arcturus. It's the mudbloods, as you said. They corrupt us. They've twisted his mind."

"How true. You know, I know for a fact that he's friends with a _Potter_."

"A Potter? Those nasty blood traitors?"

With every word, Sirius' heart sunk a little further. They hated him. His own family didn't want him. He was useless. He was pathetic. He was a traitor. He wasn't a true Black.

He would never earn that handshake from his father.

He would never receive a hug from his mother.

Even his little brother could do better than him.

All that fun he had had at Hogwarts has been betraying the people who brought him up. Betraying the people who guided him into the world. And he had enjoyed it. Should he have enjoyed it? The chaos?

He didn't belong in this family.

Sirius continued towards his room, the hateful chatter chasing him higher and higher and into the rooftops.

* * *

Sirius wanted to cry, but he pushed the tears away. Blacks don't cry.

His back would sting at the touch of a feather, never mind the heavy robes that hung off his frame. His tender skin burnt and ached, the bruises and cuts and curses littering his pale skin. Each step was hell, his legs feeling like lead and his back still hurting so, _so much._

"Oh, look at him now. Calls himself a Gryffindor - even a Hufflepuff could take that puny beating!"

Anger rose inside him. The portraits were at it again, trying to make his life miserable. All that shame and sadness and fear had melted under the heat of this newfound anger he had developed over the past two years.

And the anger was strong. Oh, the strength he felt, as if he could crush a hundred armies; as if he could take on a basilisk.

But he couldn't hurt the portraits. They were already dead.

"Anger is unnecessary, boy. There is no need for such primitive emotion." Sirius I said.

Sirius II laughed, "Have you _seen_ Cygnus' eldest, Bellatrix? She certainly has plenty of anger to spare."

"Yes, but it's a good cause, is it not?" Sirius I retaliated. "This boy is angry at _us._ "

"We are your heritage. You should respect us, boy. In fact, you were named after me!"

"And _he_ was named after _me. I_ was the first Sirius in this family."

Sirius III became tired of his two namesakes, "Will you two just shut up?" he bit back.

"And the Gryffindor speaks!"

"Just listen to the venom in his voice. _That_ has no right to be there."

"They should've beaten him harder."

"Should have starved him."

"Should have used the cruciatus curse."

"He should've been out of here long ago."

Sirius III was inclined to agree. Life in the Black family was a maze. Once you're in, it's very difficult to get out, a series of painful twists and turns along the way. Dark corners, whispered voices, a hundred ways to go, all but one ending in something miserable. It was easy to fall into madness.

He just wanted out. He didn't care if they hated him, he didn't care if he was all alone, and he certainly didn't care whether he was respectable in the eyes of some long dead old crones. At least, those were the lies he told himself. Was there a ladder over the high walls? A secret passageway to take him away?

However much he tried to hope, it was snuffed by the chill of the surrounding family.

So Sirius walked on, his heavy robes pulling on the fresh wounds on his back and his ears ringing with thirteen years of insults.

* * *

He was not happy. Not happy at all. He'd spent the last week attending pureblood party after pureblood party, pretending he was the perfect heir. He'd had to speak with girls who his mother was hoping to engage him to. That's right. _Girls._ They gossiped and giggled and they all wanted him to kiss them.

He'd never had a more horrifying experience.

And then at the end. He'd been led into a dark room. A man had stood at the window in a dark cloak. A man who had spoken with a hissing voice, who had turned to reveal stark white skin and slitted eyes on a face that seemed half-formed.

"I am Lord Voldemort," He'd said in a voice like sandpaper. "And it has come to my attention that you have a certain degree of potential. I'm sure you know what I mean, and what I am proposing. Join me, Sirius Black. Join the ranks."

And Sirius had been frozen, his feet stuck to the floor, his eyes wide, his hands shaking at his sides. He had looked ahead at the hideous man who exerted so much power, and behind at the thunderous countenance of his father, and he had simply said, "I'll have to think about it."

And Voldemort had turned back to the window and his father had led him out, clutching his arm, pushing him against the wall, and hitting him (hard) across the cheek.

"That was your chance, Sirius. That was your last chance."

Those words echoed around his head for quite a while. _Last chance._ Last chance until what? Would he be freed from the family? Or would he be killed? Killed like his Uncle Alphard, whose blood had covered the walls of Orion's office.

So he was angry, the same anger that hadn't subsided or stumbled for years. Angry and scared and a hundred other emotions that all roared in his head. He didn't want to die. And again, like the little Gryffindor first year who had stumbled up the staircase,

He.

Was.

Scared.

So, so scared. This wasn't the cruelty of his family. This was a man who had killed and killed and killed again. He didn't know what to do. There was no screaming impulse, none of that burning recklessness, not a hint of a logical idea.

And the portraits struck again.

"I can't believe it! What an offer, and he…"

That lit the fuse. Sirius really didn't want to be reminded.

"Atrocious. Utterly atrocious, I say."

"He refused! How could he refuse such an offer? The Dark Lord is powerful. Even I can feel it, and I'm dead!"

Powerful. Did they care only about power?

"Foolish boy. That was your chance at redemption."

"He could never be redeemed, Iola. Hanging out with such scum-"

Sirius cracked. He didn't care when they insulted him. He usually ignored anything, but he was so high-strung from the events of earlier that evening, his pulse still racing, and Lycoris Black had mentioned his friends.

How _dare_ she?

His anger twirled inside him like fiendfyre, exploding through his blood and tugging in his gut.

He swung his fist at the portrait, relishing in her scream as she tried to pull away. He ripped the painting off the wall, making her unable to escape into another picture, digging his nails into the canvas and dragging his fingers down. He smashed it beneath his foot. He punched it again. He hung it back on the wall, a mangled picture in a mangled frame.

He gave a bitter laugh, grinning at the mess before him. He'd receive the worst beating of his life for this.

He didn't care. Not one bit.

* * *

It was worse when they found him at school. Phineas Nigellus Black had a portrait in Dumbledore's office, and Sirius had performed a rather humiliating prank on the Slytherins. Nothing special, but the amount of times he had pranked them had stacked up until the headmaster could no longer ignore it.

"Mr. Black, I need you to understand that harmless pranks are fine, but this? Mr. Rosier could have been seriously injured."

"Black?" Came another voice, haughty and cold, and very familiar. "Oh! Sirius III. What a disgrace he is. A _prank._ On a Rosier, no less! Shameful. Utterly shameful."

"Shut up," Sirius III snapped, "Or you'll end up like Lycoris."

Phineas Nigellus gave an airy laugh, "You wouldn't dare, after what you got for that."

Professor Dumbledore cut in, "Mr. Black - by which I mean Phineas Nigellus - could you not interrupt please? Sirius and I were having a talk that doesn't involve you or require any contributions. Quite frankly, it is none of your business."

"None of my business? None of my- Why, Albus, but it is! He is my family, the future of my line! It is very much my-"

With a lazy flick of his wand, Dumbledore closed the curtains around the portrait.

"I'm awfully sorry about that, Sirius. In regards to your family, is there anything you would like to tell me?"

Sirius thought of a hundred beatings, a million yelled obscenities, the overpowering iciness of his relatives. "No, Sir. Nothing at all."

When the meeting was over, and detentions had been given, Sirius wandered down the Charms corridor on the way to find James.

"Sirius! Sirius III!" Came the voice of Phineas Nigellus, running through a portrait of a doe standing above a silver sword.

Sirius kept walking. "Listen to me, boy! You should respect your ancestors."

One foot after the other, left, right, left.

"Listen to me or I'll tell your mother about your little trick with Rosier. I heard everything."

Sirius hissed, "what do you want?"

"I want to talk to you. Believe it or not, I do care about the welfare of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. Especially when it comes to the heir. That's you."

"I know."

"I know you know! Just listen. I don't want you doing any more pranks. They're silly and childish and-"

"I can do whatever I want," Sirius snarled.

"But-"

"Look, you don't control me! I am my own person and in case you haven't noticed, you're DEAD! I am sick of feeling around in the dark for a way to survive in my own household, a way to stay sane around my own relatives. It's not right! None of it is right, and I just can't deal with all this-" he gestured at Phineas Nigellus and the air around himself "-any more. I'm done, okay? I'm not even going to listen to you stupid portraits. _Goodbye_."

* * *

Sirius Black paused. He had his Nimbus 1800 in one hand, his trunk in another. He had one foot out the window, and his front was covered in bruises, his back covered in scars.

He hadn't done enough damage. Not quite yet. He wanted the family to remember him.

The _whole_ family.

He stepped back inside, hating to do so but knowing he wouldn't regret it.

He wandered out onto the landing, looking down the staircase at all the portraits. With a wave of his wand (the Trace couldn't reach inside the Black household), every single one fell down to the bottom of the staircase, landing in a sorry heap at the bottom.

"Goodbye!" He yelled, his hoarse voice echoing through the house. He laughed, "Goodbye! Now you're at the bottom, huh? Now you mean _nothing_!"

They could easily be fixed, but he didn't care. It felt good to see them lying below him.

Now he was king.

With the sweet taste of rebellion burning on his tongue, Sirius Black III leapt onto his broom and out the window, having finally escaped the Black family for good.


	17. Shadows (RL)

**Don't know where this went, but it flew off course at the end. I wrote a thousand more words than I thought I would.**

 **Bit too unrelated at the end? Please tell me!**

 **Shadows.**

* * *

He stood by the window, arms crossed in front of him and his eyes boring into the face of the moon.

The moon. Remus had watched it since he was old enough to understand its meaning, tracking its path across the stars until he knew it by heart. He had glared at it, and watched it through a film of tears, he had cursed it and yelled at it and blamed it for _everything_. Then he howled at it every month in glee.

It watched him, too. He had felt its gaze scrutinising him since he was four years old, watching him grow. Watching him suffer. The moon laughed at his stubbornness.

Remus hated it.

He hated the control it had over him, how it dragged him through every month like a puppeteer makes a puppet dance. That rock in the sky was the centre of his entire life. He missed important classes. He had to reschedule his own birthdays. Without it he would be no-one. With it, he was even less. It made him a monster. A bloodthirsty beast. It made him a werewolf. Even as it waxed and waned, he felt it tugging at his strings, urging the wolf to emerge once more.

He hated its beauty. Everyone marvelled at its shining glamour. They called it 'romantic'. Even Remus couldn't deny that it glimmered like a silver sickle; that it was graceful and beautiful. Beautiful and terrible. The beautiful rock made his life a living hell. It made him rip himself apart until he was a map of ugly scars, a painting of gore. Its beauty made him ugly.

He hated its light. The sickly sweet glow that emanated from the sky. People said moonlight was soft, but Remus thought it was cruel. That light was stolen from the sun, a crude imitation of daylight. It hardly lit anything at all, leaving the world to stumble around in the dark as it watched, laughing.

He hated the shape. Hated the way it changed. How it disappears, and a he could hope that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't come back. And then it would, in all its glory, as a crescent, wickedly sharp. Softening, softening, until it formed that circle. A circle that looked so simple, hiding the intricacies of pain that it sparked off.

The moon was a waning gibbous now: an ugly, uneven shape. The nearest Full had been and gone, but it still lingered in the back of his mind. As he stood, he pushed that down - it was something terribly wolfish - deeper and deeper inside him. It took all his self-control not to bring that to the surface, but he let it simmer inside.

One day, it would dig itself up.

* * *

Exams were approaching fast. Remus spent every free minute of his time with textbooks strewn around him and a quill perched in his hand. Only three days away from the full moon, his temper was short and his anger was harsh.

His friends were bothering him again.

"C'mon Moony! You'll get Os all 'round without revising! Come to Hogsmeade with us. Please?" Sirius stood at the foot of Remus' bed, while the werewolf himself sat with a book on his lap.

Remus added another word to his list of magical fungi he needed to look over. "No."

"It'll be fun!"

He sighed. "No, Sirius."

James put a hand on his shoulder, which Remus immediately shrugged off. "Look, Sirius is right. You're too stressed. Come to Hogsmeade and we'll buy you the best chocolate in Honeydukes."

Though the promise of chocolate was tempting, he didn't take the bait. "I'm busy. I don't have time to leave the castle."

"Please?" Peter asked.

" _No_."

"Come prank Snape, then." Sirius suggested.

And that set him off. In his sleep-deprived form, his efforts to push down the familiar lupine anger amounted to nil.

"I rather think you've done enough damage with your 'pranks' against Snape." He snapped through his teeth.

Sirius flinched back. The hurt in his eyes was obvious.

James shook his head, eyes suddenly dark, "That was a low blow, mate. What is up with you?"

Remus shook, fighting for control, feeling it slip through his fingers. "I'm _trying_ to study for _extremely_ important exams but a couple of _idiots_ are trying to drag me away. I'm sorry for being a little irked."

"Irked? We promised not to speak of it again, and you know it hurts him. You're not acting right, Remus."

"Right? Since when did I have to act _right?_ "

"You know what I mean. You're not … how you usually are."

"And that's a bad thing? I have to always be patient, always be quiet, do I? Am I _not_ _allowed_ to be angry?"

"Remus…"

He felt the anger rise in him, pushing the Wolf to the surface. Now the beast was clawing at him, tearing down his defenses, penetrating his mind. He felt a familiar flash of desperation to yell, to scream, to _break._ "Shut up! Just SHUT UP! You keep _badgering_ me every minute of the day! If I don't do well in school, I will never get a job. Never, alright? No-one wants to hire me for who I am, so I'm just going to have to get good enough grades for them to look last that, which is pretty impossible if you two are bothering me while I'm TRYING TO STUDY!

"You've studied enough. You've barely slept!" Peter said.

"And why's that? Because I have to teach you everything you didn't listen to in class! Why can't you just grow a brain, Pete? Maybe then I'll have _time_ to sleep?"

Peter frowned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

"And that! You're never mean to Pete!"

"Get out! GET OUT! ALL OF YOU! I DON'T NEED YOU! I DON'T WANT YOU HERE! I AM _FINE ON MY OWN!_ JUST GET _OUT_!" Remus screamed with a feral growl of a anger.

James shook his head. "We're not leaving. There's something wrong, and-"

Remus struggled to regain his own voice, his own thoughts, but the Wolf was dominant. "WRONG? WHAT DO YOU THINK IS WRONG? I HAVE NO FUTURE, JAMES! I HAVE NO CHANCE! THE ONLY _NORMAL_ THING I CAN HOLD ONTO ARE MY GRADES, AND THEY ARE MY _ONLY HOPE._ " He melted underneath their pitiful looks, "I don't know what to do."

And he wept. He wept bitter tears, feeling each one drip down his face, across his scars, across the carnage the Wolf had left on his skin. He wept because he couldn't even control himself any more. He wept because his life was falling apart in his hands.

His friends sat on either side of him, their shoulders just brushing his, as if to protect him from the world that hated him.

And that's what kept him sane.

* * *

Seventh year. Remus glared at Snape, who blocked the corridor.

"Get out of the way, Snape. I'm going to be late for charms." he said, voice perfectly measured despite the anger that had been churning in his stomach for days.

"So? There's no point trying in class for someone like _you_. You'll be dead in a year or two anyway." Snape spat.

"I'm not sure I get what you mean."

"A teenage werewolf fighting for the Light in a wizarding war? You'll be a walking target."

Remus sighed, shaking his head despite the logic of Snape's comment. "Go away."

He snorted. "Why should I?"

"Because I'm a werewolf. I've already almost killed you once. James isn't here to save you. Do you want to try your luck this time?"

Severus' voice shook a little. "It's not the full moon. You can't-"

"Yes I can. Get _out_ of my _way_ , Snape."

"I don't believe you."

"Your mistake."

"You're lying. You're not trustworthy! You're a dirty, lying beast!"

He felt his cool mask slipping, the anger seeping through. "Exactly. _Get out of the way."_

"No wonder your friends hate you - you can't even control yourself when the moon is waxing and waning!"

Nerve: struck. Before he knew it, Remus had punched Snape in the jaw, and the greasy-haired boy was on the floor. Remus felt blood rushing through him, remembering his unusual strength. He covered it, pushed it down. "Don't talk about my friends. Don't talk about my control. In fact? Don't talk to me. I told you to watch out. Next time? I advise you listen."

And Remus walked off.

He left his anger behind. Now there was just disappointment. He was disappointed in himself. Couldn't even control his is body.

* * *

The Wolf started as a shadow through the window. A silhouette against the moon. A flurry of claws.

It infested inside him, hollowing out his soul and making a home there, only to emerge on full moons.

Every month, it ripped its body apart in search of blood. It didn't care about the pain, leaving that for Remus to deal with afterwards, once the moon had disappeared beyond the horizon again. It left scars all over his body.

Remus lied and lied and lied about it all. He became rather good.

Then it grew restless. It started to hunt in the days before and after the moon became full again. It plagued Remus' with illness and soreness and aches. It made his emotions run high and low and all over the place.

Soon it became part of him. Not just a shadow any more. It intertwined its mind with his until anything could set it off. It became his anger, his pain, his sadness. The Wolf became prominent in his every moment. It fed off his fear. It howled as he cried. It laughed as he yelled. It hunted as he screamed.

And every so often, the Wolf would find a weakness. In a time of stress, it would take over. Remus would become the Wolf. The Wolf would become Remus. One day, something drastic would come of it. He had to keep control.

And it destroyed him. Every word it made him yell. Every punch it made him throw. It destroyed Remus Lupin until he was too afraid to feel anymore. He just shut it all out.

* * *

"Look, Remus. We're worried." James said. "You see, we're in a war. You need to be more aware, you know? You have a mission starting next week and we need you on full alert. Not … like this."

"We don't want you to get killed." Sirius added, his voice low.

"And we need all the vigilance we have. You know what Moody would say. You need to get lots of information, and you can't do that when you're like you are now." Peter said.

"I'm fine." Remus said. And he was. He really was.

"No, you're not." Sirius argued, "You're all … wrong."

The conversation lasted a while, with James, Sirius and Peter trying to discover what was wrong, and Remus replying with various versions of "I'm fine", or "I don't know what you mean".

Eventually, the other three Marauders left him.

Remus sat and pushed everything away.

* * *

"Sirius, you know him best. Has he ever done this before?"

Sirius was lost, "Not like this. There has to be something wrong."

"But he doesn't seem to know he's doing it. It's as if he can't feel any emotion." James continued.

"Maybe..." Peter started, trailing off.

James demanded. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe he can't."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe he's stopping himself. I don't want to suggest it, but … one of us is a spy, and he's… like this. Maybe it causes him too much pain to … I dunno, talk to us. He's trying to separate himself so he doesn't feel so bad." Peter said, his voice small.

Sirius felt anger rise in his stomach. "No! How can you suggest such a thing? This is Moony we're talking about."

"But it's not, is it?" James asked. "Moony isn't acting like Moony. He's changed since we left school. While we were in school, in fact. He got all … angry."

"But…"

"Voldemort is recruiting werewolves. I won't say it is him, but we have to be careful. It is a possibility. It's him or either of you, and he's the only one acting strange. I don't want to say it, I really don't, but it's likely. It's more likely to be him than you two."

The group sat in silence, something hard weighing down their hearts. One of them was a spy. It wasn't James - he was the victim, the target. It wasn't Sirius - he was James' best friend. It couldn't be Peter - not pathetic little Peter.

But Remus had always been good at lying.


	18. Sorrows of the Observer (JP)

**If anyone's looking for more angst, check out my other little collection,** _ **The Fall of an Angel.**_ **It's basically about death and dealing with death. There's a chapter on Remus' mum and James' parents which you guys might be interested in, but it isn't just Marauders stuff. It also has a depressing lack of reviews. :(**

 **This is for Lillian Smith, who sent a massive review and suggested something like this.**

 **You guys can contribute, too! I NEED IDEAS!**

 **Sorrows of the Observer**

Falling. The Marauders were falling into a place that no-one returns from.

Sirius lay on his bed, eyes boring into the ceiling. His chest rose and fell, but other than that, he didn't move at all. He was almost corpse-like with his blank eyes and pale skin and unnerving lack of movement. James wanted to walk over and ask if he was okay, but he knew that his only answer would be silence. Tomorrow, he would receive anger. The next, perfectly crafted excuses delivered with a believable smile. The cycle never ended.

Sirius was struggling to cope with the ties his family still had on him. He didn't know the details of whatever happened in that house, but James had noticed how sore the subject was, how weak they made him feel. Sirius seemed as if he two different people: Sirius the prankster who told the dirty jokes, and Sirius Orion Black III, heir to the Noble and most Ancient House of Black.

Remus was in the hospital wing, blood soaking through his dressings. His injuries were worse than ever before, with great gashes across his stomach and bruises of his back and flesh ripped from his shoulders. James had given up visiting. He couldn't help but think that perhaps his friend wouldn't wake up this time.

His condition was worsening by the month as the wolf grew. Scars stretched along his body, and he became terribly ill before each full moon. His eyes gained a dark look of helplessness, of knowing that the end was near. Once, he'd nearly torn his own arm off. It didn't help that their animagi plans weren't even close to being finished. The werewolf continued to drag himself through each transformation with growing dread.

Peter was in the library, trying to make sense of the books so that he'd be prepared when exams rolled around. Without Remus, he just couldn't understand any of it, the words muddling on the page. He was good at practicals, but he was lost in the theory.

He thought he was nothing. He saw himself as useless, and often didn't try as hard as he should, assuming he would fail. Every day that brought them closer to exams made Peter more anxious. Every shadow made him squirm; every loud noise made him leap a foot in the air. After years of being bullied, he was gripped with paranoia.

James had watched his friends fall into despair. They had turned, in just a few years, from innocent young boys into tattered dolls that the world still hadn't finished playing with. They fell apart at the seams, sewing themselves back together a hundred times until they were a mangled mess of stuffing and stitches. They still kept breaking.

He could almost see every issue weighing them down. See how their inner workings shut down bit by bit.

They were balloons, trying to float above the biting winds, but they couldn't keep rising. At some point, they had started to fall.

In short, James was scared for all of his friends. He felt helpless as they suffered, slipping into dark places that couldn't be reached. All he could do was watch as they fell, fell, fell into some unknown realm of misery.

Their grades were slipping. Their anger burned hot. Their insecurities swarmed within.

And James could only watch.

Why not him? Why did they suffer? His own life was perfect, with loving parents and alarming courage and no terrible diseases that he knew of. He sat in heaven while the clouds held his friends back.

Sirius sat on the Hogwarts Express every year with a look of hopelessness. James came back with a smile. Peter ran from the Slytherins with nothing but fear. James laughed and faced them without any. Remus spent every month doubting whether he'd survive to the next one. James flew through life with unmatched confidence. And James knew that. He knew that and he _hated_ it, because it wasn't fair that some people like Remus suffered when they were impossibly kind, yet annoyingly egotistical people like James had an easy time of everything.

Who decided it all? Because whoever they were, they had it wrong. So, so wrong.

It was worse when Sirius came to his house and looked at Mr. and Mrs Potter with a sad look of longing. It was worse when Peter was too ashamed to ask James for help with transfiguration homework. It was worse when he went to visit Remus in the hospital wing and he tried to hide his scars.

The denial was so much worse.

 _Padfoot? Are you alright?_ James would ask.

Sirius would smile widely, _Of course. Never been better, Prongs!_

 _Are you sure?_

Then the Black heir would snort jovially, _Why wouldn't I be?_

With that smile, those gleaming grey eyes, James could almost believe him.

Almost.

But he couldn't do a thing. Not a thing as Sirius raged and Peter cried and Remus let it fester inside. They were like glass figures - they could break if James wasn't careful. What if he did everything wrong? What if he only made it worse? What if they shattered altogether?

They were meant to be the Marauders. They were meant to be unstoppable. How could they be anything if they couldn't deal with their own issues, if one member of the group couldn't help another? Marauders. It didn't mean anything, did it? Just a title - a façade of confidence and joy to huddle behind. In reality, they were broken beyond repair.

So James watched. He watched their ups and their downs and their anger and their pain and he did nothing. Nothing at all, because for once, James Potter didn't have a witty comeback or a cheering one-liner. He was scared - absolutely terrified - of what he might do in the attempt.

James was protecting himself with his own façade, because he didn't know what he would do with himself if he made it worse. It seemed like every step forwards, to freedom, took them two steps back.

All he could do was observe, and before he realised it, he was falling with them.


	19. House of the Brave (SB)

I like this one. It's all chopped into little parts, and I've written it in a different style to usual. Look at the part numbers!

(Is it too happy?)

HOUSE OF THE BRAVE

* * *

questions

* * *

1: Don't all mothers say that?

"Slytherin, Sirius." Walburga Black snapped, "That is the way to greatness." Her imposing figure towered over the eleven-year-old?

"Yes, Mother."

"When you get on the train, you must meet the right people. Purebloods, and respectable ones. Don't sit with blood traitors - I've taught you how to tell - and remember: you are their superiors. Whatever age they are, unless they're the heir of another sacred family, you are more important. You are the most important of all of them - they don't matter."

(Don't all mothers say that?)

"Yes, Mother."

"Our heir. You'll do us proud."

Sirius looked at the ground.

"Look at me, boy. Don't avoid my eyes like a nervous mudblood. Be proud, boy. You must always have pride for who you are."

* * *

2: Why am I not there instead?

"GRYFFINDOR!" The hat yelled. Its voice rang through the room, cutting through the silence.

Silence? There was supposed to be a hall full of cheers and claps. There were supposed to be proud family members and overjoyed friends…

But no. Nothing but the bitterness of silence.

(Why is no-one speaking?)

He stood, eyeing the table in red. Red.

After a moment of confusion, it hit him. Gryffindor. That was why. Why no-one spoke. Why Narcissa's face was twisted into an expression of disgust, outrage. Why Andromeda looked pitying. Why James Potter had a massive grin lighting his features.

(How can he be happy?)

Ancestors from a thousand years back snarled at him in disdain. The entire weight of the Black family suddenly dropped on his shoulders.

He realised there were noises around him now: a yell of anger, a scream of 'Blood traitor!" from the green table that was Slytherin.

(Why am I not there instead?)

Muttering from all around, spinning through his mind. McGonagall was saying something. Urging him to move.

Go on.

Go on, Black.

(Why can't I move?)

Black. Black. A hundred lectures. A hundred stares. A hundred slaps. A hundred yells. A hundred ancestors. A string of tangled insults. A pile of paperwork. Too many stiff dinner parties and ballroom dances. Two angry parents. One glittering Black ring heavy on his finger.

That was what Black meant.

Suddenly he stood, placing the hat neatly back on the stool. He turned his back to the Slytherin table, who jeered unpleasantly at him, and walked slowly-

("No need to hurry, Sirius. A Black rushes for no-one.")

-with his back straight as a knife-edge-

("Sit up straight, boy!")

-and he looks at Gryffindor house, who stare back in shock. He catches each of their eyes, daring them to speak out. Slowly, slowly, they start to clap. It's a hesitant clap, but they clap nonetheless, and a sliver of respect glints in their eyes.

(This is who I am.)

(And I am proud.)

* * *

3: What if I fall?

Pride? All of that was quickly squashed out of him. Though James had grinned at the Sorting, and they'd been fast friends on the train, he acted differently now that he knew. Knew who Sirius was. His jokes were hesitant, and his smile pained, and his whole demeanor rather stiff when he was around the Black heir.

"Black?" He'd said, "I-I didn't know. Sorry."

The other boys in the dormitory weren't much better. The first he met was a chubby boy with watery eyes - Peter Pettigrew - who was twitchy the moment Sirius said his surname. He seemed to have stuck to James (who seemed mildly annoyed) like a limpet.

The other boy didn't seem to want to speak at all. His peculiar amber eyes shone with terror at Sirius, James, and even Peter. Something about him was off, and he had a knack for killing conversations with only a couple of words. Sirius hadn't even caught his name.

Having given up with his roommates, Sirius tried to word a letter to his parents.

Dear Mother and Father,

I am incredibly sorry, but

(Blacks have no need to apologise.)

I don't know what

(A Black must always be sure of himself.)

The world is unpredictable, is it not?

(A Black does not ever fall off track.)

I regret to inform you that I have been sorted into Gryffindor.

He didn't get any further. His mind still reeled from the events of earlier that evening. The voices of his roommates echoed through his head.

Gryffindor was all too much. He hadn't lived up to his parents' expectations. He hadn't done the right thing. His life was spiralling out of control. He didn't know how to act around his house - people Mother said were all dirty Mudbloods and Blood traitors - or how to fit in. He felt like he stuck out, like everyone pointed at him and said, 'There's that Black.'

Surviving the next few years, toeing the line between his family and his house would be an impossibility. How could he choose? If he chose his family, the next few years would be literal hell. If he chose Gryffindor, he could only imagine the wrath of his parents. For now, he edged along a tightrope, wobbling at every step.

(What if I fall?)

Eventually, he just lay down in his very red, very Gryffindor bed.

He cried himself to sleep.

* * *

4: Why am I here?

"SIRIUS ORION BLACK!" His mother's voice screamed in the form of a Howler. "I DOUBT YOU COULD EVEN COMPREHEND HOW DISAPPOINTED WE ARE IN YOU! YOU SHAME US! DID YOU NOT EVEN ONCE THINK OF THE CONSEQUENCES THIS WOULD BRING ON YOU AND YOUR FAMILY?!" Sirius almost shivered at the thought of what consequences meant for him. "WITH THIS ACT, YOU TARNISH OUR VERY NAME! YOUR ANCESTORS ARE ROLLING IN THEIR GRAVES! HOW DARE YOU EVEN ATTEMPT TO DAMAGE OUR FAMILY! YOU ARE A NASTY BLOT IN OUR BLOODLINE, AND IF YOU CONTINUE ON THIS PATH, YOU'LL END UP AS A NASTY BURN ON THE TAPESTRY!" The thought of that image seared his mind. "YOUR FATHER AND I EXPECT YOU TO IMPROVE YOUR BEHAVIOR OR WE'LL HAVE TO TRANSFER YOU TO DURMSTRANG, WHERE I'VE HEARD THEIR DISCIPLINE IS MUCH HARSHER. I CAN ONLY WISH WE HAD A MORE RESPECTABLE HEIR!"

Well. He guessed the question of their reaction was sorted out. He had never thought they'd be so public.

(Why is this happening at all?)

There should be a letter full of praise, his parents saying how proud they were of his sorting into Slytherin.

People were staring (obviously Howlers weren't common occurrences), their looks reflecting … pity? Curiosity? Maybe a little bit of something more malicious. Someone patted him on the back and muttered something about being 'one of us' now. About Gryffindor being his family. They gave him a reassuring smile.

He must've looked at the other boy strangely, because he looked away hastily.

He would have preferred the jeering laughter that Slytherin might have given him. Not this. Not a half-camaraderie, an tentative reassurance that didn't actually mean a thing. Not people sitting around him, not his friends but not enemies. Not this loneliness.

Why couldn't everything be black and white? Why was Sirius stuck in a fuzzy grey space?

(Why am I here?)

Sirius decided at that moment that he hated Gryffindor.

* * *

5: Is that wrong?

"I don't think she knew. She's a mudblood, I think."

James stopped in his tracks, "And there I was, thinking you were alright."

"What do you mean?"

James looked disgusted. "You're not meant to say that word."

"What word? Mudblood?"

"Yes, you idiot!"

(Is that wrong?)

Sirius was confused. She was a mudblood, wasn't she? She seemed to be awed by the tiniest feats of magic, totally ignorant of the Ministry and of the magical world. As for the word itself … he had never heard another word that refers to someone with muggle parents.

"But what do I say instead?"

James stared at him, "You've never … heard any other word for it? Your parents use that word?"

"Yes."

(Why is that so shocking?)

"Oh. Well, muggleborn. Say muggleborn instead."

"Alright."

If that word was so bad, why did his parents use it? Why did he hear his mother screeching about them, using that word? Why was that word printed on his father's papers?

(Are they wrong?)

* * *

6: Is it worth it?

Friendship. It was bitter on his tongue. His mother would be disappointed.

Not only had he made a friend ("acquaintances, not friends, Sirius. You're not a commoner.") but said friend was a Potter.

Sirius had never been rebellious before. This was … huge. The thrill that shuddered through him when they'd shook hands. The warmth that spread through his heart. The laughter that exploded from him … the joy.

(Is this natural?)

For moments, he had forgotten his mother's parting words, not remembering until far too late. He didn't want to stop his first ever friendship, but neither did he want to disappoint his mother.

In Mother's mind, disappointment meant punishment. Punishment meant pain. A few days in the cellar. A few lashes with a whip. A few hexes. Maybe even a curse.

(Is it worth it?)

But Sirius no longer wanted to feel that loneliness that had plagued him for the past week. Perhaps his time in Gryffindor would be more enjoyable if he spent it with someone else.

Friendship, he decided, was worth the pain.

* * *

answers

* * *

1: No, not all mothers say that.

"You must be Sirius! James has told me all about you." Mrs Potter said, a smile widening across her features. She was quite small, but such energy buzzed around her that Sirius couldn't help but be overwhelmed.

(Is this normal?)

"Hello, Mrs Potter." he said meekly, thinking of all those lessons on manners his own mother had subjected him to.

"Oh, I told James to make friends with whoever he wanted, and I am very glad he chose you. You are so polite! Maybe you can knock some manners into my son." She kept smiling. Sirius didn't think his mother had ever smiled that genuinely. "Well, come in, then! James, you should show him around."

"But Mum, can't we play quidditch first?" James protested, "I haven't played since Christmas."

"Let the guest decide. You aren't the only person in the world!"

* * *

2: Because I belong here.

"Oi!" A seventh year yelled, "You shouldn't do that. Get away from him or I'll give you detention. In fact? Detention! Tomorrow at eight with McGonagall."

"You can't do that!" Narcissa screeched from her position in front of Sirius.

"I'm the Head Boy. I can do whatever I bloody like."

Sirius was shocked. Not only had the Head Boy - who he'd never met before - stood up for him, but Narcissa was listening (albeit reluctantly) to him.

Once she'd stalked off, Sirius turned to the older boy. "Thank you."

The boy grinned, revealing crooked teeth. "No problem. We can't have them Slytherins picking on our second years. I'm Florean Fortescue, by the way. Head Boy. Ever in any trouble, just ask."

(Why is he doing this?)

"Well … I will. Thanks again."

"Just remember, will you? You don't have to listen to them just because they're your cousins. We're all behind you. All of Gryffindor, that is. You're one of us."

(I'm one of them.)

* * *

3: Then I'll fall the right way.

Fallen. Sirius, the dog star, brightest in the sky, had fallen. He'd dived off that torturous tightrope into the darkness beneath.

"I'M NOT ONE OF YOU! YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME! YOU AREN'T MY FAMILY! NOT ANYMORE!" Sirius yelled.

(But who is?)

"How dare you, Sirius Black!"

"I dare! I dare because I am a GRYFFINDOR! I AM A LION! I am brave enough to say so. Not a slimy, pathetic snake like you."

"I will not tolerate such disrespect. I cannot allow you to get away with such childish behaviour. Perhaps some discipline will do you good."

"Yes, discipline. You mean you'll beat me until I can't walk? Won't that make me hate you more?"

(Do I hate them?)

(Do I really?)

(My own family?)

Slap. A sting across his cheek, blood trickling from where his mother's ring had caught his skin.

(Yes.)

Yes. Yes, he hated the people whose answer was pain. Whose retribution was blood. He hated the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

* * *

4: This is my home.

He was crying, his tears muffled by the pillow beneath his head. He remembered at the start of first year, when the source of tears had been the pillow itself, it's colour. Now it was the start of fifth year, and it was the very opposite. The scarlet hangings to either side were his only comfort.

(I'm not one of them.)

His summer had been painful. Beatings and curses and days in the cellar. Dinner parties and ballroom dancing. His parents trying to marry him off. Everything had been so very green, from the lapels of his dress robes to the walls of his room. The red was nothing but a comfort.

But despite the red, he cried.

(Do I have to go back?)

He dreaded his return to that prison. He hated the control his parents had over him. He longed for the comfort of Gryffindor.

(Can I stay here forever?)

It was silly to think that he had once hated it.

Now, he hated the scars on his back, the ring that wouldn't come off his finger, his own name.

(Can I change it?)

"Sirius?" came a voice. One with a soft, lilting Welsh accent.

He wiped away his tears, but his voice was hoarse as he spoke, "What?"

"You're crying." the hangings were pulled back to reveal the scarred face of Remus Lupin.

"Yes," Sirius said, "I suppose I am."

"Why?"

(I don't know what to do.)

"Nothing."

Remus sighed and took a seat beside Sirius. "Well, it's obviously something."

He hesitated, "I don't want to go back."

"Home?"

(That's not my home.)

"This is my home."

"I'm sorry." he said.

(There's nothing to be sorry for.)

"Don't be. It's my fault. I'm not good enough for them."

Remus frowned, then smiled a little. "Well, you're good enough for us."

* * *

5: Extremely

MUDBLOOD

The words were a great slash against the brick. They were written with something of a muddy red color, like literal dirty blood, but the handwriting was neat, in perfect calligraphy.

Someone had spent time on this.

(How could they do this?)

How could anyone have such disdain for muggleborns that they viewed them as less than human? How could anyone claim that their blood was clean and muggleborns' dirty?

There was a gasp from behind him as Lily Evans saw the vandalism. He turned to see tears in her eyes before she ran off, red hair streaming behind her.

(How is anyone so cruel?)

It was unforgivable. And when the war finally came, Sirius hoped that whoever did this was cut down by a so-called 'mudblood'.

* * *

6: Yes.

They'd stayed with him all these years. The four Gryffindors, running recklessly into every situation head-first as usual. The four friends, unable to hide their laughter at a prank no-one else found funny. The four Marauders, together through everything.

(What is the price?)

He now hid a hundred scars on his back; lines that were far too regulated to be anything but whip marks. They were a diary of his pain, a memento from his prison. They were his past.

This was his present: sunlight filtering through the leaves of the beech tree they reclined beneath, laughter ringing through the summer air, a feeling of contentment settling inside him.

And the future? Who knows.

He just laughed and looked over to his three friends. Peter, choking on a chocolate frog. James, reenacting a 'legendary' quidditch move from the day before. Remus watching with amusement, not even glancing at the book in his hand.

(This is my payment.)


	20. The Measure of a Man (PP)

**Boxing day! For me, anyway. Hope you all had great Christmases (if you celebrate it).**

 **Looking back at chapter 1 (An Absence of Humanity), do you think I should destroy the piano? Just for effect? Tell me what you think!**

 **Any requests? I'll happily write any ideas you lot want to see.**

* * *

 **THE MEASURE OF A MAN**

 _The measure of a man is what he does with power._

 _Plato_

Power, Peter supposed, wouldn't be a bad thing to have.

He had seen power, felt power, cowered from it … now was the time to grasp it. How could he ever get by without any, after all?

Recently, he had started to yearn for it. It was an obsession that Peter couldn't seem to shake. He thought about others, with their power, and himself, and his lack of it.

James had power. He had that smile that everyone believed, and those eyes that were far too innocent. Before he gained a reputation, he'd had power over the teachers, getting out of trouble and placing it on some poor Slytherin's shoulders. Now, he had power over the student body - his fame as one of the best quidditch players in the school meant most of the more sporty students respected him, and the fact that he could get full marks on a transfiguration test without trying meant a nod of appreciation from the more studious of the school. Other than that, he made fast friends with _everyone_ he liked. James Potter was popular. Popularity meant power.

Sirius had power. It was a little darker than James', because half of it came from the infamosity of his family. His social standing in pureblood circles was unmatched by anyone else his age, being the heir to the largest fortune in wizarding Britain. Even the Slytherins had been told by their parents not to touch him. With the non-pureblooded of the school, it was his looks that got it all. Somehow he was 'bad' while being aristocratic, which meant quite a few of the girls (and one or two boys, not that they would admit it) wanted him in a way other than as friends. Sirius had connections. Sirius had looks. They meant power.

Remus had considerably less power than James and Sirius, being rather shy, but he had a great deal of respect from the teachers and from some students. Helping with homework and giving out general advice meant that most of the younger Gryffindors knew him, and being well-behaved (or so they thought) made the teachers like him. Remus may not be loud, but he had his own little bit of power. Kindness and obedience have their share of power.

Peter had none of his own. He had low marks and no quidditch ability, he was fat and a half-blood, and had no knowledge of his own to answer questions in class, never mind help other students. He had no idea what others must think of him, his obvious weakness. He wanted to change that. He wanted to be … _something,_ not just the sorry nothing he was now.

Peter sought out others who had that power.

He thought of Sirius' family, who had such a sway on Sirius that the usually boisterous boy came back after every holiday quiet and jumpy. Sirius was afraid of them. Fearsomeness meant power.

He thought of the gang of Slytherins who hung out in the smallest courtyard, who knew Dark magic and laughed at muggleborns. Who used nasty language without a tremor in their voice. They were bullies. Violence meant power.

Finally, he thought of the man in the newspaper. The Dark Lord. He-who-must-not-be-named. You-know-who. Sirius had said his name was Lord Voldemort. A man whose very _name_ was so powerful that people feared to utter it. A man who could quieten the entire Great Hall at breakfast time. A man who killed, who was as Dark as Dark could be. The man who had the most power in the wizarding world at this moment. Darkness. Darkness meant the most power, in such amounts that the whole of the Light world trembled.

Dark magic; it swallowed Light. It quenched James' popularity and hid Sirius' looks. It created his connections, and it destroyed any kindness Remus had. Dark magic meant fearsomeness and violence and the ability to silence even Dumbledore himself.

Darkness. That was the answer.

 _That_ would bring him the desired power.

* * *

 _Three years later._

Power. They could see Peter slipping away on a stream of it.

Not that they knew that. They thought it was something else altogether.

"Peter, what's the matter?" Remus asked, with that _kindness_ in his voice. "There's something bothering you."

"Nothing," Peter said, still feeling the burn of a black mark on his forearm.

 _You're one of us now._

"You're … pulling back," James said. "Look, Pete, please tell us. We don't know how to help."

 _And today we welcome to our ranks, Peter Pettigrew! A spy among the Gryffindors._

 _Helping_. That would get them nowhere. Helping the weak only hindered the powerful. You wouldn't see the Dark Lord helping the muggleborns he killed, would you?

"I told you. It's nothing."

"Was it the article in the paper?" Sirius said quietly. At breakfast that morning, everyone had gone quiet as they read yet another report of an attack on twenty-six innocent muggles. Those muggles were dead. Peter had not mourned as he should've done - he congratulated himself on picking the right side.

 _Peter, you should've seen last night! A little crowd of muggles, looking so confused, so scared as we razed their houses to the ground. It was beautiful, Peter. Fire and fear and death. Just shows the power of the Dark Lord!_

Power. Everything was about power. And now Peter had some of his own.

Peter decided not to lie if he didn't have to. "Yes," he said, "The article. It … shocked me. They are very powerful, aren't they?"

Sirius made a face, "Let's show them power. They won't get away with all this. Dumbledore will do something - just you watch."

 _Pettigrew, if they say anything, you have to report straight back to us, alright? And try to pry stuff out of them. Maybe Dumbledore's said something to them._

"Are you sure? How do you know?" Peter asked.

"Well, he's Dumbledore, isn't he?" Sirius laughed, "The Death Eaters have no chance!"

Peter almost sighed. Once he had information, he had power. Power that he stole. He would have power over the Marauders (even if they didn't know it), and power among the Death Eaters. Imagine what he could do as the most valued spy in the Dark Lord's ranks!

 _If you see a chance, take it. Imagine if you got into Dumbledore's secret society! You'd be vital, Peter._

Imagine that.

Power. Now that he had some, he was hungry for more.

* * *

Power. Oh, Merlin. He lapped it up, bathed in it, swam in his own sea of it.

Dumbledore had called him.

"I would like to tell you four about a society called the Order of the Phoenix." Dumbledore said, his blue eyes as serious as ever.

 _If you see a chance…_

"It is a group that works to fight Lord Voldemort."

 _Imagine if you got into Dumbledore's secret society!_

 _Do not say his name. Ever. It's a good way to get yourself killed._

"And I think you have the attributes that we look for. You would join, of course, after graduation, which is in a matter of weeks. It would be something alongside whatever job you take. I am asking you to join."

Power. Peter was drunk on it. It danced circles in his mind, burst on his tongue like sweet fruits.

"Yes, sir," said James, "I would be honoured to fight Voldemort."

 _Do not say his name._

"Of course," said Sirius, "Any chance to make a difference against those … well, I won't continue. Language, and all that."

Remus simply said, "Yes," but his eyes were shining with something akin to hope.

Peter swallowed. He didn't want to open his mouth lest that taste of victory escape him. Lest he say the wrong thing.

 _You'd be vital._

"Yes," he said, "Yes. I'll join."

Unlike his 'friends', he didn't think of the cause to vanquish evil. He didn't think of doing good. There was no thought of Light pushing away the Darkness. There was only Darkness - powerful Darkness - snuffing out the Light. He thought of the power it would bring him. The power. Sweet, lovely power.

Power. It was a drug, and Peter was utterly addicted. Lapping it up, bathing in it, swimming in it, drunk on it.

Drowning. Drowning in power.

* * *

Power. He had it, now. Not just the scraps he had been fed in the past years, but proper power. Now he would be famous. Now he would rule beside the Dark Lord.

"My Lord! My Lord, I have excellent news!"

He looked into the darkness, seeing only twin fires that marked the Dark Lord's eyes. A hissing voice echoed around him. "Pettigrew. I hope this interruption is worthwhile."

Peter didn't bother to wonder what he was interrupting. "I am the secret keeper. I am the Potters' secret keeper."

Silence. A silence in which Peter admired his own skill. He had been so sly, so perfect at lying. They hadn't even suspected. They'd thought it was Remus. Ha! As if a werewolf would ever be given such an important job. And now, when the Dark Lord's enemy was dead _(not Harry. Don't think of Harry. Or James. Or Lily.)_ , everyone would think it was Sirius.

Peter had never liked Sirius.

"Well done, Peter. You have certainly become very useful to me."

His heart swelled with pride.

Now he'd finally reached it. The rest of his life would be luxury. People would love him. People would fear him. Peter Pettigrew would be a symbol of the new world once the Dark Lord rose.

To do this, he'd betrayed his friends, the only people ever to properly accept him. He'd lied to everyone. He'd helped a terrible cause rise, helped them to kill. _He_ had killed. He had tortured. He had lied and threatened. He could almost feel guilt coiling inside.

Almost.

He ignored all of that, refused to think of it.

Because finally - _finally_ \- he had grasped that unimaginable _power._


	21. Pox (JP)

**I had this on my other story, Fall of an Angel, but no-one reads that, so I'm moving it to here.**

 **This was requested by _aarrimas_ a while ago.**

 **James chapter!**

 **POX**

* * *

"Mr. Potter? You have an urgent message from St. Mungo's."

James turned from where he was finishing a Potions essay to where Professor McGonagall stood at the door.

"St. Mungo's?"

"Yes, Potter. If you could follow me."

James followed McGonagall through the portrait hole, frowning. St. Mungo's? Why in Merlin's name would he have a message from the wizarding hospital? He knew no patients there, apart from his cousin's great aunt (who he'd never even met).

Unless someone he knew had been hospitalised.

And _that_ was terrifying.

He quickened his pace, striding alongside McGonagall, desperate to see what had happened, and to whom.

They passed into McGonagall's office, a small and plain room on the fourth floor, and he sat opposite her.

She just looked at him rather sadly. James could almost feel the temperature drop. "Have a biscuit, Potter."

He took a ginger newt, setting it carefully in front of him, unable to eat from the incessant churning in his stomach. "What happened?"

"You are aware that your mother has returned to work after the newest Dark attacks?"

He was, and he told her so. Mrs. Potter hadn't been able to bear sitting in her house while the attacks were going on, so she had immediately phoned up St. Mungo's and told them she would be returning from her retirement.

"Well, she has caught a disease from one of the patients."

He hesitated. Surely all this wasn't about some disease? With magic and the right healers, it wasn't difficult to heal just some disease. James frowned, "Yes?"

"Dragon pox, James. Your mother has dragon pox."

The world spun. The wood below his fingers melted into nothing. The walls bent and twisted. The ginger newt in front of him came alive.

"What?"

James had heard about dragon pox. Everyone had. A few years back there had been an epidemic spreading through the school and everyone had had to go home while the infected students were quarantined. Three students had died.

"The age she is … that's a ten percent survival rate."

Everything was blown out of proportion. Suddenly it didn't matter that people were disappearing all around Europe. It didn't matter that a war was coming, or that … anything. Nothing mattered more than the life of Euphemia Potter.

It was like an explosion had sparked in his head - a sudden deafening roar blocking out everything else.

He held his head in his hands, trying to stop the barrage of thoughts in his brain, trying to calm his shaking fingers, trying to quench his sudden, roaring anger. Anger, anger, anger. Pulsing through his veins, filling his mind.

Why did _she_ have to catch it?

James was angry at the patient that gave it to her, and at the man who started the attacks to cause her to return to work, and whoever was in charge of St. Mungo's and his mother for just …

No. How could he be angry at his mother, who would surely die within a year, whose skin was probably already pockmarked with angry boils and purple rashes, with a slight green tinge.

Oh, God.

He could see her now.

She was going to die.

She was going to die.

No more gingerbread houses at Christmastime, sitting in neat rows on the windowsill, just waiting to be cracked open and eaten. She'd always put an exploding charm on one of them as a surprise for whoever picked it.

No more discussions by the fire, talking for hours and hours about completely nothing. Those talks of nothing had been everything to James during the holidays. The hours had flown by as they laughed and nibbled at chocolates and waited for James' dad to return home.

No more scolding for leaving clothes on the floor whenever James was too lazy to put them away. Now James was willing to do anything - _anything_ \- to get her back. He thought about all the times he hadn't listened to her, all the times she'd told him, _just listen to me for once, James Potter!_

He would listen now. He'd do anything.

No more Euphemia Potter.

James' heart was aching, breaking.

McGonagall's voice cut through his bubble of misery, "Look, Potter. She's not dead yet, don't mourn until she's gone. You have to savour the time you have left with her. I will allow you to visit on weekends."

James looked up, tears glistening in his eyes. "But I can't even visit her, can I?"

"You can. There are ways to prevent yourself being infected."

James was silent for a moment. "Okay. Okay, I will. I'll savour the time I have left. You're right, Professor. You're right."

And he stood, grabbing the ginger newt from where he'd left it, a sudden wildfire burning through his veins. The tears on his cheeks fueled his determination.

"Absolutely right," he muttered.

He opened the door, and turned back. "Thank you." he said, and left.

He walked the opposite direction to the common room, the whole school seeming alarmingly large.

He crushed the ginger newt in his fist.

* * *

A year and a half later, James stood by the blank white door, his heart beating a steady metronome.

His mum's heart wasn't steady. It had become faint two days before, and today was the day.

Today was the day Euphemia Potter was scheduled to die.

James couldn't bring himself to cry. Was it wrong? Was something wrong with him? He stood, hand resting an inch away from the handle, unable to move. Unable to think. Unable to cry.

He should be weeping. In fact, he'd started crying last week. He hadn't been able to stop, sitting in the dormitory with his friends around him. He'd cried for days.

Not now. Not now that she was actually ... leaving.

James' dad had it too. The pox. He'd got it off her only two days after she'd been diagnosed, but because of the early warning, the medicines could keep him alive for another two weeks.

It could, but it wouldn't. Fleamont Potter had expressed his wish to die with his wife.

So now James' whole world was falling apart, breaking into pieces. He'd left Hogwarts only three days before, and at that moment he was losing his parents too. It's funny how the loss of one life can so greatly affect another and another, until a hundred people were tied in a state of grief. Funny how, in one moment, all can be forgotten apart from the darkest of thoughts.

Sirius was struggling to cope, saying he didn't want to be there when it happened, locking himself in a room and tearing things apart, drinking bottle after bottle of firewhiskey to drown away his pain. He was angry. So, so angry.

James' anger had melted away, leaving only a cold numbness.

It was strange, and slightly wrong, that there was a schedule. A schedule for death. The healers had told him it would happen around four minutes past four. James felt like at the end of the countdown, not just the Potter parents would fall, but the whole world with them.

It was two past now.

They'd wanted to be at his wedding. Mum had wanted to bake the cake. Dad had been joking about helping to set it up. They'd wanted to be there, at their own son's marriage.

Now James had to go to their funeral.

His hand reached for the metal of the handle.

He needed to be there, even if it was behind a sheet of glass to protect him from the disease. Even if they couldn't speak anymore, and their skin was unnaturally green and covered in marks and rashes.

He needed to be there, but at the same time he couldn't.

Couldn't.

Three minutes past.

 _Come on, James._

Would he see it? The life draining from their bodies? Would the line on the magical monitor go flat all at once? Would their bodies sag as their souls departed?

Oh, God.

James didn't like to think about death, but a war was on and it was inevitable.

With a sudden burst of energy, he swung the door open. He would watch their last moments.

He would honour them.

White room. Everything was white apart from the ghastly green corpses that lay on the beds. Their eyes were closed, and their skin was puffy and bloated, and they were covered in a purple rash with yellow boils and their skin was the hideous hue of pond sludge.

Corpses. Because they were already gone. The bodies were unmoving, slumped, just like the terrible images that had danced through his head. The line on the monitor was flat.

He hadn't even witnessed their last moments. They had left the world without their only son beside them, without family nearby. Alone.

A rush in his ears.

A chill on his eyes.

A ringing in his head.

A twitch in his jaw.

Shaking.

Shaking.

Shaking.

They'd been alone.

James felt not only grief, but guilt. Awful, bone-shuddering guilt. Wouldn't they have wanted him there? Yeah, they would've. They would've wanted to say 'goodbye, son', see his eyes and his face. They had loved him so much. And now they were gone, so he couldn't apologise, just brood and regret and live knowing that he'd failed them. Failure. A complete failure.

There was his mother and there was his father, and they were gone forever. They'd died alone.


	22. Bloodthirsty (RL)

**BLOODTHIRSTY**

"The werewolf is classified as a Dark Creature."

Remus shifted in his seat. Today, and for the next two Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, they were learning about werewolves. Well, everyone else was. Remus knew everything there was to know.

The Professor continued. "What do you think of when I say 'werewolf'?"

 _Scarred. Hurt. Afraid._

"Bloodthirsty beast," someone suggested. Remus didn't know who; he stared at his desk, head swimming with a sudden wave of nausea.

"Heartless monster," said another. He wanted to scream, he wanted to walk out, he wanted to tell everyone the truth. But he didn't, because he could imagine their looks of hatred. He listened to their prejudiced comments, and didn't say a thing.

 _Misunderstood. Frustrated. Afraid._

Besides, then they'd know, and he'd be kicked out, and he'd have no education, which meant no job, which meant no money, no food, no house. He was hanging on to this tiny shred of hope by his fingertips. If they found out…

He stared at his clenched fists.

 _Afraid. Afraid. Afraid._

His head felt light. His stomach rolled.

"Well, yes. There is no way to be sensitive about this subject, because the truth is that werewolves are all of those things and a hundred more."

Remus was not shocked. The Professor had been very professional about everything else … even polite about vampires' feeding habits. He'd seemed kinder than last year's, and more understanding, but...

There was no way to be professional about werewolves. And how was he to know that there was one in the class? How was he to know that every word he said was a dagger piercing into Remus' side?

"First of all, what does a werewolf look like?"

 _A canvas of scars. Hopelessness in their eyes. Broken._

"On the whole, like a normal wolf, just with shorter snouts and a tufted tail. Probably scarred, too - much more so than any normal wolf."

"Why, sir?" Came a voice. Remus didn't know who was around him, who was talking, where he was. He didn't feel the comforting hand on his shoulder, didn't sense his friends around him.

He was alone.

 _Bloodlust. The need for prey. The blood is beautiful. The pain is refreshing. Claws in flesh, muzzle in blood._

"The werewolf may try to escape their confines, hurting themselves in the process. Most werewolves are refused by healers and hospitals, so it's difficult for them to heal themselves. Also, in small spaces, they cannot hunt anything, so they find blood in ... different ways."

Some of the class shuddered. Remus barely flinched. He was lucky to have Madam Pomfrey there to care. If she wasn't so understanding, he'd be dead.

Dead, like all the werewolves who hadn't been allowed into St. Mungo's. No-one could understand that dark creatures can think, can hurt, need help.

"The transformation itself is an incredibly painful process."

 _First a pain in his stomach. Then his bones snap and reform in a new shape, stretching and warping his skin, muscles tearing and changing, fur forcing its way to the surface. Screaming, screaming, screaming until his voice box and throat and skull change too, and he's howling in pain. His mind whirls and cracks apart and suddenly the Wolf is out._

"They turn from a seemingly normal human into a dangerous wolf. I say 'seemingly' because werewolves are dangerous and violent even in human form, living on the fringes of society, often in packs."

Remus thought of the hundreds of times he'd been thrown out of whole towns - humiliated and mocked and beaten until his family moved. " _You're not welcome here. Not your kind. You're dangerous. Stay away from our children, alright? Go away! Join your own species in a pack. Take the burden off your poor parents."_

Again and again and again. Wales - all around Wales, from Conwy to Ryd Ddu to Llangynog to Llanvihangel Crucorney,* until they'd moved to England when Remus got his Hogwarts letter. Three places in Suffolk, one in Norfolk. It was a never-ending cycle of moving and making friends, then being attacked or thrown out and moving again. No-one wanted him.

No-one.

"There are strict regulations when hiring werewolves, so most don't find honest work."

Remus didn't want to think about the future yet.

The lesson continued - how to spot a werewolf, what to do if you see a werewolf.

How to kill a werewolf.

"Remus, what do you think?"

Remus looked up from where he'd been glaring at his desk, "What?"

"Please try to listen, Lupin. What do you think is the most efficient way to kill a werewolf?"

"Well," He started, trying not to sound bitter (and failing miserably). "I'd say a silver bullet in the heart, but it's a bit unoriginal. A werewolf can be killed any way a _normal_ human can be killed. But I'd say the best way is to let them get on with it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they're pretty efficient on their own, aren't they? They end up killing themselves during transformations."

Professor Baldwin looked a little shocked that the usually quiet student would say something in such a tone, but he just continued with the lesson, supposing today must just be a bad day.

Remus sighed and put his head on the desk and tried not to think about anything at all.

* * *

"Remus, you have to eat," Sirius said, putting some bacon on his friend's plate.

"I can't. I'll vomit." It was true - his stomach ached and rolled, threatening to push everything up. He'd already been sick twice this morning, and hadn't even eaten anything yet.

"Why?"

" _Because._ "

 _Because I can't handle the way it's cooked. I can't handle the way it's not dripping blood, not red and juicy and …_

"That's the worst excuse yet. What is up with you?"

"You know what day it is!" He snapped, his temper almost as temperamental as his innards.

"So?"

"This is the day I turn into a disgusting creature who doesn't deserve to live, who should have a silver bullet through his heart. Who doesn't need to bother with an education 'cause he'll never get a job anyway."

"Oh Merlin," Sirius said, " You're in one of _those_ moods are you? It was that stupid Defence lesson, wasn't it?"

Remus didn't say anything, putting his head on the table and groaning.

"You have to eat, though! Wolves eat, so why can't you?"

"They eat … different things."

"Like what?"

Remus sighed. Might as well tell him. "Raw meat."

It was Sirius' turn to sigh, "Well, that's not so easy, is it?"

Remus didn't reply, thinking of anything, _anything_ but that incessant craving that tore through every fibre of his body. It wasn't just raw meat; it was human meat. A part of him wanted to rip into Sirius, dig his fangs ( _teeth. They're teeth!_ ) into his flesh.

That's what made him hate himself. Not the scars or the Wolf itself. It was the bloodlust, that terrible craving that made him lose all his control. When the moon rose, he wouldn't be able to control anything at all as the Wolf found human blood within its own body.

That's what made him feel less than human. That's what made him wish he had just died during that first terrible transformation. Died so he didn't have to deal with all this pain, all these emotions, this terrible thirst.

* * *

 _The moon rose._

 _First a pain in his stomach. Then his bones snapped and reformed into new shapes, stretching and warping his skin, muscles tearing and changing, fur forcing its way to the surface. Screaming, screaming, screaming until his voice box and throat and skull changed too, and he howled in pain. His mind whirled and cracked apart and suddenly the Wolf was out._

 _That night, it didn't bother trying to get out. It knew there was blood right there, flowing through its own body._

 _It hadn't eaten recently, so its stomach was empty, a gaping hole which it needed to fill somehow._

 _That time it could handle the way it was cooked. The Wolf could handle the way it was dripping blood, red and juicy and sweet._

 _Bloodlust. The need for prey. The blood was beautiful. The pain was refreshing. Claws in flesh, muzzle in blood. A painting of pain on the clawed walls, a song of hunger howling through the night. The Wolf didn't care about the pain. The Wolf didn't care that it was killing itself. It could leave Remus to do the hurting and the healing. The Wolf can return next month, good as new, and do it all again._

 _Inside, Remus was trapped._

 _Scarred. Hurt. Afraid. Misunderstood. Frustrated. Afraid._

 _Afraid._

 _Afraid._

 _Afraid._

 _A canvas of scars. Hopelessness in his eyes. Broken._

 _And still hungry._

* * *

 **Oh. That was unexpected. It was meant to end differently, but … oh well!**

 ***I own none of these amazing-sounding Welsh place names - I found them on Google maps (and visited two of them!). Obviously I don't own the counties that are mentioned afterwards.**

 **Thank you to all the brilliant reviewers.**

 **ATTENTION, PLEASE!**

 **I am running out of ideas. Please, please, please give me ideas for any of the four Marauders (nice and angsty, please).**

 **Also, do you want stuff from after they left school, too, or do you like the school years angst we have now?**


	23. All Over (PP)

**Okay, I'm venturing a little bit out of school days here, so please let me know if you like this or would prefer the school stuff.**

 **Lillian Smith requested this (send your own requests in if you have any!)!**

* * *

The air is tinted green where the starlight passes through the curtains. The wallpaper is patterned with serpents. The chandelier is silver and twisted into the shape of a skull.

Peter is a lion in a bed of snakes.

Peter is a boy in a room of men.

Peter is very, very alone.

It's what he's craved for almost a year now, what he's been imagining in a hundred different ways.

None of his dreams included him huddled in the corner, terrified.

Today he is to meet the Dark Lord, whose very name is a curse, whose very idea is a damning, whose very face is a nightmare. A man whose Mark will soon adorn Peter's arm in all its terrible glory.

He can imagine it: a crisp black Mark surrounded by pale skin, sitting rather smug as the skull it depicted grins at him. It will bring gold to his lips, silver to his heart, power to his soul. That Mark is the blessing he's been praying for, the one thing he wants beyond imagination.

Yes, the very thing that makes up his dreams is happening today, and all Peter can do is cower like a lowly house elf.

He wonders if he - a Gryffindor half blood - will ever belong among these Slytherins from their noble bloodlines.

He wonders if these powerful sorcerers will scorn him for his lack of magical ability, or mock him for his less than aristocratic features. That is what they had done at school. That's what everyone does, and surely the Dark elite are just the same?

A bell is rung, and everyone else makes their way to the table as if they know exactly where to sit. Peter is left to wonder, sliding in nervously next to a man he recognises from school as Lucius Malfoy, who turns his nose up and faces the other way to talk to Travers.

On Peter's other side is the greasy-haired face of Severus Snape, who bears an expression more sour than Lucius'. But Snape doesn't have an acquaintance on the other side, so the two enemies sit in silence while the rest of the table explode into murmured chatter.

Each of their faces are different, but their eyes share the same Dark glitter, their mouths the same twisted smile. The wear the clothes of their families, and various crests can be seen along the table. It looks as if they were trying to show off, what with their ringed fingers and bejeweled robes. Peacocks spreading their plumage. Porcelain dolls with pretty painted faces.

"Scared, Pettigrew?" Snape drawls after a moment.

"No!" he squeaks, cursing his voice for making such a pathetic noise, "No, of course not."

People from across the table are glancing their way, perhaps checking out the fresh meat, or wondering what the puny Gryffindor is doing there.

Peter is wondering that himself.

"Are you?" He asks.

"No!" The Slytherin boy snaps rather violently.

Severus seemed to have a gift for ending conversations quickly.

There is no food as Peter had expected at a table like this, but everyone seems to be waiting for something to happen. There is a tension he can almost feel, an expectation he can almost touch just lingering around them all.

The Dark Lord is coming.

He looks at Snape, who seems to have come to the same conclusion, and notices a sheen of sweat on the other boy's neck and forehead. Snape _is_ scared.

The chatter still hasn't ceased, and as Peter despairs, it echoes around the cavernous walls of his head, pelts his mind with a hundred worries. He's an adult now, finally grown to decent proportions yet he's never felt smaller.

 _Serves you right, you bloody traitor._ Says a voice that sounds suspiciously like James. _Thinking you can get into his good books. You should've stayed with us, Pete. Now you've got no hope._

James' voice is severed by a sudden quiet. The hall goes silent, everyone sitting straight and arranging their robes, adjusting beards and twisting rings and pulling on ties.

A chill descends upon the air, settling over the crowd of Death Eaters (or Death Eaters to be) in an icy sheet. There's an infernal hissing from the darkened entrance, and the candlelight seems to dim further.

The door slams open and everyone stands as one, rising for the Dark Lord.

His face is the moon, pale and observant.

His eyes are the stars, burning bright.

His mouth, when he speaks, producing sounds like Heaven's music.

Or Hell's.

"Thank you for coming here tonight," he says, his voice somehow raspy but clear all at once, high and cold, "My loyal followers," his eyes rake the table, "My new recruits."

His eyes are directly on Peter for just a second as he says those last words, and the Gryffindor knows that this is right. This is what he has been waiting for his entire life. This rules over the fear. This beats away the worries. This is purpose. This is something _real._

There is talk of revolution. There is talk of a flame to burn down the muggles. There is talk of Darkness and power and the death of Light. Peter listens, and lets it all sink in until those words run through his blood, are stitched into his muscles, are carved into his skin.

Then he - the Dark Lord - looks at Snape, then Avery, then Mulciber, then Rosier and finally at Peter himself. The eyes are on him again, those burning eyes in a face of ice, those Dark pits in a world ruled by Light.

Peter feels important. Peter feels powerful. Peter feels valued.

He calls them up one by one, and they stand by his chair. Mulciber goes first, and the Dark Lord looks into him, then raises his wand and brings it to the boy's bare forearm.

Screaming.

Screaming.

Glory.

Mulciber screams, but afterwards he leans and kisses the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. A Dark Mark leers from its place on his arm.

Rosier.

Avery.

Snape.

"And you, Peter."

He almost trips on his chair in haste to get up, then walks as swiftly as he dares to the carved chair at the head of the table.

He bows, "My Lord."

When Peter straightens, his watery blue eyes meet the red of his to-be-Master, and he feels something probe his mind, something cold and pure slipping through the murky water and descending upon the memories. The memories which start Light and slowly become Darker and Darker until (mere seconds after it started), they reach where they are now.

Peter is awed by the power. Awed by what the Dark Lord can do.

"Well done, Peter."

And there is pain, but through it all, there is triumph. Ice is spreading through his veins, starting at the forearm and snaking its way through his body until it envelops his heart.

It is all over, and that beautiful mark is burnt onto his skin despite the extreme cold of the procedure.

It is all over, and Peter is one of them.

* * *

It's all over.

"I regret to say that there is a spy within the Order."

Mutters from around the table. All Peter can do is keep the bile from rising up his throat.

"They are feeding information to Voldemort."

 _Do not say his name!_

"They are perhaps here at this very moment."

People scan everyone else. Peter does his best to imitate them. Does his best not to cry.

He's seated at a very different table now - the opposite, in fact. Surrounding him are the Order of the Phoenix, who fight the Dark Lord, who oppress Darkness with their choking Light. They are purebloods and halfbloods and muggleborns alike. And Peter is remembering every word they say so that he can tell the other Death Eaters.

And he feels … guilt? Is that what makes his stomach roll in such a way? Is that what makes his head pound?

No. No it's fear. Peter doesn't think he's capable of guilt, not after what he's done … who he's gotten killed.

Peter pushes down that fear. They won't even suspect him. Not Peter Pettigrew.

* * *

It's all over. For good this time. Peter - as a rat - runs through the sewers, shuddering with something he can't place.

It could be excitement about what he's done.

It could be fear of being discovered.

It could be sadness or regret or some other emotion that he'd previously shut down.

He hopes he shudders with power, for that is what he has.

James is dead. (The boy who left him.)

Lily is dead. (The girl who was far too kind)

Sirius is imprisoned. (The boy who was rude.)

Remus will probably kill himself. (Dirty creature.)

And Peter? Peter is free, a Mark fading on his arm and the space where his finger should be aching like mad. (The boy who made the right choice.)

He is not tied to a group like he was to the Marauders.

He is not a servant to a Master like the Dark Lord.

He is FREE, and all of that is over.


	24. Cloud of Smoke (JP)

**I've never smoked. I don't know what it's like to smoke, so I made some educated guesses. If I've got anything wrong, please let me know. Not that you should try it out. Ever.**

 **Just because James smokes doesn't mean you should. It's absolutely terrible** **for your health. Please, please keep yourself healthy and avoid cigarettes.**

 **This is a request from** _ **justagirlwholikestowrite**_ **\- thank you so much for the review!**

* * *

James sat at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Call him dramatic, but the height was a perfect distraction from everything he didn't want to think about. He could stare into the stars and feel that he had a friend who brought no painful baggage. He could look into the night sky and feel there was something infinite out there, something that would remember him when he was gone. He could look at the ground and feel that he was untouchable.

He'd swung his legs off the side, and the danger kept his mind tethered.

Fumbling in his pocket for a moment, he brought out a battered pack of cigarettes and his wand, sticking the former in his lips and lighting up with the latter.

Smoking. James had to admit his love of the rolled paper under his fingers, the smoke curling into the sky, the relief it gave him. The world was yelling at him, a great weight on his shoulders, and the smoke dulled the sound, lightened the weight, even if it was only temporary.

He knew it wasn't good for his health. Of course he did - he liked to know these things, especially when it might affect his quidditch performance - but he just couldn't stop. And he'd be fine, wouldn't he? He only had two or three a week. Every Friday and never any other time. They said it killed you. They said it blackened your lungs and caused an array of terrible diseases.

But James didn't let himself care; he'd be killed by the war before those muggle ailments ever got him.

The smoke was silver in the moonlight, twirling into the night like a phantom. It tasted harsh and bitter, but it was like coffee in that way - it became soothing after a while.

James let the smoke push away the stress. The past melted away into nothing, the pain of the present dulled to a weak throb, and the future remained as it should be: wreathed in smoke, unseen.

Before he realised, enough time had passed for the cigarette to become nothing more than a faintly glowing snub, and he let it slip from his deft fingers, spiralling down to the ground.

He sighed before getting another.

"James?" Came a voice from behind.

He turned to see Sirius, who raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Smoking? This is what you do on your weekly night walks? _Smoking?_ "

James shrugged.

Sirius grinned like the Cheshire Cat, "Pass me a ciggy then." He did, and they sat together, the two boys dangling precariously from the top of Hogwarts' tallest tower, the tips of their cigarettes glowing like a pair of eyes.

"If I'd known you smoked too I wouldn't have kept it so quiet!" Sirius was saying, "Honestly, mate, we're more alike than I thought."

James still hadn't said a word, and he was aware that Sirius would realise that soon enough. He just didn't know what to say.

The Black heir paused, his smile disappearing in a second. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and held it in two fingers, examining his friend. "You alright?"

"Fine."

"No. I mean _really_. Are you really alright?"

James squinted into the darkness as if he could find something that would explain it. He sought out a light in the gloom, a glimmer from the lake, a pale animal in the forest.

Nothing.

"I dunno." He said.

"You … what?"

"I can't really explain it. It's like … the world is running away from us. We're gonna be the fighters, aren't we? We're gonna be the fighters and the victims and … why us? What did we do to deserve any of this? The war is all on us, all that weight on people like Remus, whose lives have had too much pain already, and people like you who'll have to fight your own family. It isn't fair." James turned to Sirius, whose face held more understanding than he would've thought. "It just isn't fair."

Sirius held the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag from it. "What would you prefer?" He asked.

"What do you mean?"

Sirius' eyes glittered bitterly, "Would you prefer some other generation got this load? Nothing's fair, James. There's someone like Remus in every generation, someone who deserves so much more than they get. But that's life. Life is … cruel. Life in unfair. But we gotta deal with it. We've got to fight through. We've got to win, James, or it'll be every generation for the rest of time who has to deal with this kind of thing. We've got to kill him or it'll never end."

Sirius laughed. "It'll never end!" He always did in times like this, time when he should be crying or yelling. But Sirius didn't want to show the weakness of weeping or the insecurity of shouting, so he laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

He decided that he didn't care if the smoking killed him, as long as he did something worthwhile first. In this world, James would never become a quidditch player like he wanted to. He could never live peacefully with days full of laughter and joy. He didn't like the chances of every single Marauder surviving this war, especially since they were all so keen to be part of it. But he thought of what he could do. He thought of the world he would've wanted and decided he could at least give that to someone else, and he came to a conclusion that stuck in his mind as if it had a permanent sticking charm on it.

Looking at his laughing friend, James let his heart harden. "I'll kill him, then," he said.

He didn't care that Sirius was no longer listening, lost in his own dark thoughts. "If that's what it takes to clear the future, I'll fight him myself. Again and again and again. I'll keep going until he's dead or I am."

Sirius looked over. "You do that, James." His laughter had finally ceased. "You do that."

And they sat in silence for the rest of the evening, until the cigarette packet was empty and the air was a cloud of smoke.


	25. Staining the Tapestry (SB)

**First of all: sorry this is so late. I REALLY need ideas, so even if you want me to try a one-word prompt or something, or one piece of dialogue, please say. I'm running low on creativity right now!**

 **Started as a bit of practice to get myself into a Sirius mood, but I think it's good enough to go on here.**

 **The start is a bit slow, but it gets better a bit later on!**

 **STAINING THE TAPESTRY**

* * *

Sirius had always loved his cousin Andromeda.

He half expected her to come back. Yet here he sat, barely eleven years old, at the foot of the tapestry. He wondered what had spurred her to do such a terrible thing. He wondered if she'd ever come to her senses. He wondered, if that happened, whether she'd ever be forgiven.

She had used to tell him that muggles weren't so bad. She'd told him to call mudbloods muggleborns instead. He should've known from that moment what had happened to her. That she had become one of them, one of the people Mother ranted about. Muggle lovers.

The tapestry was green, like the Slytherin robes he would soon wear, like the official ties he'd don afterwards, like a snake. The same snake that lingered behind his mother's eyes when she lectured him on the Black family values, or in his father's when he stood from the table and gave a toast to the future. The same snake that had slithered its way onto Bellatrix's forearm. A snake is sly and resourceful and ambitious. A snake would go far in life. The tapestry was green like the light of the killing curse, like the candles in the dining room when they burnt too low, like the shrewd eyes of the house elf, Kreature.

Green like royalty. Green like pride and the purest emeralds.

The writing was black. Black like Black, like his mother's heart and his grandfather's soul (or so they proudly claimed), like the very essence of their noble family. Like the curling calligraphy that his father wrote in, like the potions he locked away. It was black like the dark feathers of a lonely raven, like dress robes and shined shoes and Sirius' hair. Black like a delicate beetle's wings or the silent flutter of a bat through the night. His parents' wands were black and his surely would be when he got it next year.

The burn was also black. It was black and Black. Sirius didn't know what to think of this kind of black - to him, this wasn't elegant and noble, but dark and bold and evil.

The hole in the tapestry stared at him like an eye, a single blemish in generations of purity. It looked into him. It looked through him. Andromeda had seen something he had not, and now this eye was left to commemorate her.

Andromeda had ruined the family. That's what they all said. But to Sirius, the family had ruined her. Her picture had been so lovely before they blasted it off.

Sirius looked at his own picture, at the curling hair and the proud, pale face. So much stronger than his own trembling, skinny self. He wouldn't let Mother ruin that as well.

* * *

Uncle Alphard went next. It was the summer after fourth year, and Sirius felt awfully grown up, but still he wept, curled into a ball at the foot of the tapestry.

His ancestors sat smugly on their branches above him, noses in the air, chins tilted and eyebrows raised superciliously.

He had thought they were perfection only five years ago. Now he knew they were anything but.

There, another burn. Another stain on the green background.

Though now, through older eyes, the green wasn't royal. It was like a fading bruise, like sludgy pond water, like the slimy surface of a toad's back.

Now, Sirius ran his fingers over the other mottled areas on the tree.

Iola Black.

She'd married a muggle and had been thrown onto the streets because of it. They had lived happily for three years until he got a muggle disease and died. His parents wanted nothing to do with the posh, pretentious girl who had taken their son from them, who had no money or muggle skills, so yet again she was cast away.

For weeks Iola had wasted away in the gutters before returning to her family home and begging at her father's feet. She had written letters with the little money she managed to gather, knocked on the door for hours on end.

It was pneumonia that got her in the end. The snow fell thick and heavy that year, and she had nowhere to go. On Christmas Eve 1871, she had sat outside 12 Grimmauld Place, the very house Sirius stood in, and her parents and siblings had watched her die. By the morning, her body was frozen over.

Under his feet, Sirius could almost feel the cold of that night.

He wandered onwards, passing haughty faces, grey eyes that followed where he stepped.

Phineas Black Jr.

This was a man Sirius could respect. He had led a campaign for muggle rights, trying to ban muggle hunts and other violent action towards muggles. When he'd returned home, the door had refused to open, and yet again, his family watched from the window at his futile attempts to enter.

Disgusted by their lack of understanding and hatred of muggles, he went on to pass several anti-mugglehunting laws.

Phineas had shown them. He hadn't cared about noble heritage. He had done what was right.

If only Sirius could do the same. More likely he'd end up like Iola.

Marius Black.

Sirius had always hated the story of Marius Black.

For the first few years of his life, he had been cherished and spoilt, fed the same lies everyone else in the family was.

At the age of eight, his parents had become suspicious.

At ten, they started to doubt.

When his Hogwarts letter never came, they gave up hope.

They beat him bloody and yelled a hundred curses and locked him in the cellar for weeks. Sirius had seen the message Marius had gouged into the walls:

GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN.

Marius Black disappeared and the only time members of the Black family told their secret was to threaten their children. I've told you about Marius Black, have I not? Screamed for days before he finally died. My father was there. So come on then, boy, try again! If you can't get this simple spell right, you'll end up like him.

He had been a squib.

And again, just as with every traitor, Marius' family had watched. Sirius' grandfather had watched.

Maybe Sirius didn't like it because of the cruelty displayed by his family. Maybe because it was the loss of an innocent life.

But it was probably because it reminded him too much of his own story - cherished, loved, spoilt, until he turned eleven and everything went sour.

Cedrella Black.

Another marriage to the wrong person. The Weasleys were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but marrying one was still unforgivable.

She had fallen in love with Septimus Weasley, had ran off with him, and was never permitted home.

Fifty years later, at the age of sixty-eight, she had appeared in court about an attack on one of her children, Arthur Weasley, who had survived and left Hogwarts the year before Sirius joined.

Her younger sister, Charis Black, was a defence witness and had turned the trial upside down. Cedrella was sent home in tears, having been forced to pay Charis a fee for the property her son had supposedly destroyed.

Moral of the story (and the reason Mother had told Sirius): don't mess with the Blacks. You'll always lose.

Then, Andromeda, who Sirius still didn't want to think about. Who had been so kind. Who, for a while, he had despised for her act of treachery. Now he wanted to see her and her husband and her baby. To cry into her shoulder and ask for help. Because he needed it now, more than ever.

Finally, he reached the black mark he had started from. Alphard Black. He had gone to Alphard's every year, to a huge house in Durham, to play quidditch. It had been his only free time in the summer holidays, the one thing that made up for everything else. The one time among family that he had been able to feel alive.

Alphard had tried to help him.

 _Sirius paused when he heard voices at the door to his father's study._

 _"What in Merlin's name are you trying to say, Alphard?" came the icy voice of his father._

 _A much more pleasant, rumbling voice replied, "I'm just saying there's nothing anyone can do about it, so why do you hate him for it? Better to-"_

 _"Don't tell me how I should treat my son, Alphard."_

 _"Just listen, Orion. It's better to treat him as we treat Regulus, else this newfound hatred will only grow, yes? He is still a Black."_

 _"He is a Gryffindor."_

 _Sirius frowned. They were talking about him._

 _"But his mind is still salvageable. We cannot alienate him like this! He flinches whenever Walburga walks into the room. He's unnaturally quiet. He hardly eats! What had you been doing to the boy?"_

 _"That is up to his parents."_

 _"If the Ministry find out-"_

 _"The Ministry WON'T FIND OUT! Who is there to tell them? Are YOU going to run to your precious mudblood Minister and tell them about this … this …"_

 _"Abuse?"_

 _There was a silence. A deadly, terrible silence, as if the very atmosphere was trembling at Orion Black's thunderous countenance._

 _"Discipline," he said, his voice seeming colder than usual. "We call it discipline. It seems, dear brother-in-law, that it is something you lack."_

 _Another silence._

 _"I can discipline you as easily as I discipline my son, you know. CRUCIO!"_

 _Never before had the colour red looked so cruel. This was worse than a sea of blood, than a bottle of poison or a raging fire. The light of the cruciatus curse burnt the very soul. It spilled from beneath the doorframe and into the corridor where Sirius stood, and he leapt back as if it would eat him alive._

 _His favourite uncle's screams shook the house._

 _It seemed to last years and years, and then it just … stopped. It happened so suddenly that Sirius immediately sprung to the door and put his eye to the keyhole._

 _He tried to step back, but he couldn't look away._

 _His father stood over his uncle, who was shaking on the floor, cowering in a tight ball and whimpering slightly. "No… no! Orion, please… please!"_

 _Orion Black was a predator, and Alphard was his prey. The wand he twirled in his hand was the deadly barb at the end of the scorpion's tail. Orion the hunter._

 _He raised his wand, a small smile on his face that Sirius didn't understand. Wasn't he angry?_

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

 _Green light rocketing through the room, stroking the back of Sirius' eyes, ricocheting around his brain._

 _No scream this time. The body lay still, looking so delicate. Orion dusted off his lapels with a lazy hand and returned to his paperwork._

 _Sirius couldn't drag his eyes away. The green flash still echoed over and over, that awful silence, the nonchalance of his father's movement._

Like a hundred other blood traitors, Alphard Black was never seen again.

All that remained was a burn in a tapestry, a few words in a will, and the broomstick (gifted by Alphard) that Sirius had hidden in his room.

That burn marked the end of Sirius' ignorance, and of his innocence. It was ugly, like an open wound, and it hurt. It hurt. Another eye opened; another eye gouged out. That should be the motto of the Black family.

The room, with its green and black, spun around him in a whirlwind of darkness. The haughty faces looked at him with displeasure. The candlelight dimmed. The world was waiting for his decision.

Sirius just curled into a ball and tried not to look, letting the tears carve into his cheeks.

* * *

He had never seen his own burn before. Now, 1995, nineteen years since he had been disowned, he looked at it. Sirius could remember, as a child, running his fingers along the different faces, pausing at the scorch marks and thinking about who had been there. He remembered the departure of Andromeda, and that terrible event that he had watched through the keyhole.

He thought of his own flight.

Now the face of Sirius Black was gone, replaced by a small burn mark.

Better to go in fire, he thought. Better to go in fire than in the ice that his mother had held inside her, that his father had wielded.

Now they were dead, and who was laughing now?

No-one. No-one laughed.

The house trapped him, forced him to relieve those awful memories he had tried to bury. Not Remus' kind words or the thought of throwing away his family's favourite heirlooms could stop him from running the hamster wheel in his mind that took his through the same scenes over and over and over and over until he was too dizzy to continue.

If he stayed in here too long, he'd surely go mad. Maybe he already was.

He could only stare at that awful stain on the tapestry, surrounded by a sea of royal green.


	26. Excuses, Excuses (RL)

**Lillian Smith requested this one a while back. This is for you! :)**

 **Also, I've just fixed the previous chapter if you haven't read it yet. Thanks for letting me know!**

 **Hope you don't mind the dots - lines seem too final for this one. Dunno why.**

 **Please keep the requests rolling (not for Remus - I'm overloaded with ideas for him!).**

 **.**

 **EXCUSES, EXCUSES**

The first charm he learnt when he reached Hogwarts was the glamour charm, and restless nights were spent practising it over and over again.

The first lie he told his friends was that he had been attacked by his neighbour's dog, and that was where the scars were from. Hours and hours were spent reciting it before the mirror.

The first thing he did when he received his Hogwarts letter was cry and cry and cry.

Remus Lupin had a secret, and he wanted it to stay that way. He didn't want them to know about his monthly trips to the Shrieking Shack (accurately named and more dangerous than anyone thought), or his days in the hospital wing, bleeding from the scars he always hid behind glamours and long sleeves, or the real reason Professor Slughorn avoided his desk.

Lycanthropy.

.

His small fist knocked on the blue door, a grin plastered on his face, amber eyes alight with joy.

He'd been at the hospital for a month, and than _that_ night happened, and he'd gone in again. Remus still didn't understand what was going on, but he knew that it had hurt a lot, and that he'd woken up alone in the dark. He knew Mummy had cried for a long time. Past that? He wasn't just confused. No-one had explained anything, just looked at him in a sad, or pitiful, or fearful way.

Why were they scared of him? They were four times his height!

The door still hadn't opened. Remus knocked again. "Artie?" he called.

No answer. The lights were on in the hallway, and he saw a shadow in the frosted glass of the door.

"Mrs Jones? It's Remus. I'm back!"

It was an unusually warm and cloudless day for north Wales, but Remus felt a chill nonetheless. Mrs Jones _was_ in the hallway - he could see her curly hair and pregnant stomach.

"Mrs Jones? I came to speak to Artie. Please can I see him?"

The shadow moved inside and Mrs Jones opened the door a crack. The breeze brushed at Remus' hair, revealing the new scar that ran along his hairline. The four-year-old found himself a little scared. Arthur's mother had always been so kind and homely. Now…

"Mrs Jones?"

"Go away," she snapped, voice cold and face stony. Her eyes didn't glow with motherly love. Her smile was gone.

"But I just wanted to see-"

"Keep away from my son, you … you _monster."_

Remus found himself crying, something that had happened a lot lately. Why couldn't he see Arthur? Why was Mrs Jones so mean today? Why was everyone like this now? Why, why, why?

He tottered down the path, through the gate with its flaking green paint and into his own house next door, where he cried into his mother's lap and told her everything.

.

Again and again. Neighbours and friends and even family. Auntie had seemed angry, Uncle had seemed scared, and Grandma had taken one look at him before spitting at his feet. After Artie, Ben and Lisa and Gwen had left too, their parents growling at him or shutting the door in his face or throwing stones. They'd had to move house several times to get away from it all. Daddy was always at work. He was too scared to make more friends.

He had Mummy, but it wasn't the same.

.

A tall man with an impressive beard had knocked on the door that morning. Remus had been sent to his room while his parents whispered worriedly to each other. He'd come in (Remus heard all of this with his sensitive hearing), greeted Lyall, who he obviously knew, and introduced himself to Hope.

Albus Dumbledore.

 _Oh, Merlin._

Remus hadn't had any friends his own age since he was six, and at eleven, he spent his time alone. He read a lot, mostly muggle fiction, and played the little out-of-tune piano in the living room. School, ever since he was four and bitten by a werewolf, had been unthinkable.

Dumbledore had come to tell them he couldn't go.

Dumbledore had come to speak to his parents about something entirely different.

Dumbledore had come to inspect the cellar, where he transformed.

Dumbledore had come to kill him.

His imagination could think of nothing positive.

"Remus!" Came Mum's voice from downstairs.

Cautiously, he trod downstairs and stood in the doorway where his parents sat with Professor Dumbledore.

They were all looking at him. "Hello," he said.

Dumbledore smiled, blue eyes twinkling, "Hello Remus. I've come to speak to you about Hogwarts."

Well, at least this wasn't his execution.

"I know; I can't go."

"Ah," said the old man, "Well that is where you're wrong, my dear boy. It is entirely possible that you could attend just like any student."

"But I'm a…"

"We can make arrangements."

A joke. A sick joke. The governors wouldn't allow a dangerous beast at the school, even if the headmaster would. What would the students say? The teachers and the parents? He wouldn't last a day before they found a way to expel him. Dumbledore was playing a joke.

"You doubt," the Professor said. "I see it. The other students, and the governors, would have to be kept in the dark. The teachers would know so that they could excuse you from homework, and we would find a secure place nearby for you to transform."

"You don't understand," Remus said, ignoring the looks his parents were giving him for his rudeness. "I need days to recover sometimes, and proper medical care, and I'm always ill beforehand. It's too much of a hassle - someone will figure it out and I'll be back where I started."

"If that is the case, the teachers would excuse you both before and after the moons. We also have a qualified healer on site. And if someone finds out … don't you think it's better that we try?"

He'd miss lessons every month and miss important parts of his education. He'd have to hide a part of himself from the other boys in his dormitory. He'd have to prepare a hundred excuses.

Doubt lingered, but now hope was shining through. _Better to try_ , Remus thought.

"Alright," he said, "I'll go."

.

Now Remus was going to Hogwarts and he thought: _surely they'd hate him there too_? The train was huge, the whistle loud, the people all too much for him after so many years of loneliness.

His joints already weak because of the waxing moon, he was pushed and shoved about as he tried to reach the train. Eyes fixed ahead, he fruitlessly tried to squeeze past the older students.

He'd already said his goodbyes, and it hurt too much to look back.

Upon reaching the train at last, he found an empty compartment near the back, and settled down to read the next eight hours away.

He thought of what his mother had said as they left the house: _try to make some friends._ Friends would always let him down in the end, though. Friendship, for a werewolf, only caused pain.

Remus had barely started his book when the carriage door opened. Two boys came in, looking thoroughly disgruntled. "Mind if we sit here?" said one boy, who had huge glasses over hazel eyes. "Bunch of seventh years just chucked us out of our compartment."

The werewolf nodded his consent warily.

The other boy, pale with longer black hair that framed aristocratic features and slate grey eyes, was silent as he sat, seeming just as hesitant as Remus.

"I'm James," said the first boy. His voice was a warm but his accent jumpy, as if he was posh but trying not to be. "James Potter. This here is Sirius Black."

"Remus. Remus Lupin."

James' eyes lit up, "Welsh?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Cool."

Remus didn't see how it was 'cool' at all, but he didn't say a thing. If friends were bad, enemies were worse, and there was something inside him that told him to be friends with this vibrant boy.

"What house do you want to be in? I want Gryffindor for sure. Pretty much all my family's been in Gryffindor."

"I don't mind," Remus said, "But Dad thinks I'll be a Ravenclaw."

He looked to Sirius, whose expression was one of … longing?

"My mother will kill me if I'm in anything but Slytherin." His accent was definitely posh, every syllable clipped and sharp, but there was bitterness in his tone. It was the first time Sirius had spoken, and Remus had the impression that he was jealous of James and Remus' freedom.

If only he knew.

James looked at Remus, "Where're the scars from?" He wasn't being rude purposefully, but Remus was affronted by this sudden question.

"I-" Already, his future was falling around him, any hope he had of normalcy crushed in an instant. "There was an incident with my neighbour's dog."

James seemed satisfied, but behind Sirius' masked expression, curiosity and suspicion burned in his eyes.

Another boy came in at that moment, sweets clutched in his hands. "Mind if I sit? I'm Peter Pettigrew, by the way."

The rest of the train ride went on without a hitch, and Remus had found some friends after all.

He only hoped they lasted longer than Artie had.

.

James and Peter were serving their very first detention, and Sirius sat with Remus in the dormitory.

"Did they do it?" Sirius asked.

"Who?"

"Your parents. Is that where the scars are from?"

Remus didn't answer. He saw something like understanding in the other boy's eyes and decided to let him think what he liked. Anything was better than the truth.

.

"Where're you going?"

Remus turned to see his friends - and dormmates - staring at him as he left.

"I'm ill," he said, "I have to go to the hospital." Seeing their worried faces, he added, "Don't worry. It happens all the time."

And he left, breathing harder than ever, muscles aching, bones cracking, the tug of the moon present everywhere. He hated lying.

.

Madam Pomfrey was surprisingly understanding. She was all soft smiles and bright eyes and a caring hand on his cheek.

Oh, how it made him miss Mum.

He was recovering very well - the Wolf had been too busy exploring the abandoned shack to hurt itself too much.

"Can I go now?" Remus asked quietly.

Madam Pomfrey frowned. "You're not well yet. Stay until supper, and you can join your friends then."

Remus didn't protest, but wished he could go now. His friends would be even more suspicious the longer he stayed, and discovery was - for the moment, at least - his greatest fear.

.

The cycle of excuses and escaping and the full moon and more excuses went on and on for at least another year.

Remus dreaded the day they found out, because yet again he would be scorned and hurt and end up crying in Mum's arms. Sirius' parents were governors and they'd expel him when they found out.

Then not only would he be a werewolf, but he'd be an uneducated werewolf. It would ruin whatever chances of getting a job and having a future he had left.

But it wasn't the future he was thinking about. It was the searing anticipation of the present. The conclusions his friends were surely coming to _here_ and _now_. He was thinking about how James' hazel eyes would widen in hatred, how Sirius would turn cold again, how Peter would tremble with fear. He thought about how Dumbledore would be patronisingly apologetic, how Slughorn would say, _phew, the dark creature's gone. Now I can breathe_.

He shuddered at the picture forming in his mind - him, soaked to the skin, begging to be let through the huge doors of the castle, the entire school watching and laughing. Spitting at his feet like Grandma had. Everyone _knowing_ and assuming everything about him from one word.

Werewolf.

If he was an artist, he'd paint his life in the darkest colours he could find. Red like the crusted blood that covered him every month. Blue like the stormy sea of misery he was lost in. Grey like the angry clouds when it rained. Black like Remus' death - sure to come soon. Amber - rich, dark, haunting amber - like the colour of a werewolf's eyes.

But he wasn't an artist. He couldn't express himself without despairing. Remus was left to drown in his own pain.

.

After his third moon of second year, he arrived to a grave dormitory. Each boy sat on their own bed grimly, looking directly at Remus as he pushed open the door.

"Something the matter?" He asked.

But he knew what was coming. They always had that look in their eyes.

"We need to talk to you, mate." That was James. He'd never been so serious.

"You already are."

Silence. Sarcasm didn't fit in this atmosphere.

Sirius looked nervous. Peter looked pained. Perhaps worse of all, James was utterly emotionless.

"You're a … you're a werewolf, aren't you?"

Remus shrugged. "Took you a while."

"You didn't make it easy."

Silence. Oh, that awful silence that burrowed deep into Remus' mind.

The other two boys still hadn't spoken.

"I'll go then," Remus said, "Don't make a big deal out of it. _Please._ "

"What?" Sirius asked, standing.

"Exactly what I just said. Please don't tell the whole school my secrets. Just … forget this happened or something."

"No," Sirius said.

Sighing, Remus walked right up to him, "You can punch me if you'd like. I don't care. Do whatever - just don't tell. I won't bother you again."

"What he means to say," said James, "Is that we don't need to forget this happened. We don't _care_ , Remus. We've had a discussion - all night, in fact - and we don't care an inch. Just … let us ask some questions about it, 'cause you understand we want to know-"

"What you're sharing your dormitory with?" He interjected bitterly.

"How to help you." James' voice was soft again, and he smiled. "You're still our Remus. It's just a … furry little problem."

"That doesn't quite cut it," Remus said. He couldn't help it, so soon after the moon - anger rising in the pit of his stomach. "Little?"

"To us, it's insignificant."

James had always been the smooth talker of the group. The reassuring one. The glue that kept them from running off. In four words, any anger he'd caused was gone, leaving relief and -most of all - love.

After all this, how could Remus not love his three best friends?

He wrapped James in a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in the shorter boy's shoulder. He didn't realise he was crying until he started to shake, but tears were soaking into James' robes.

"Oh good Lord," said James, actually _worrying_ , "What do I do?" And Remus laughed at the familiarity of James - the resident worrier, and always completely oblivious.

Remus wasn't crying out of sadness or anger or pain or the hundreds of things that usually sparked his tears. He was crying from pure happiness.

.

 **Wow. That was … happy? How is this possible?**

 **I liked writing this one! It came to me so easily. Please put in requests for next time - either James or Peter, I think, but I need ideas for Sirius too.**


	27. Sacrifice (PP)

**Wow. Thinking of ideas for Peter and James is getting difficult! This doesn't really have an overriding meaning, it just … is.**

 **Sorry this is so late. I've been ill for the last few days and busy before that.**

 **SACRIFICE**

His mind was breached. A spectral snake slid beneath his thoughts, weaving in and out of every memory, every wonder and dream and regret.

And oh, it hurt. It was as if the invader was a physical presence, forcing its way inside his brain. His head was tight and stinging as if compressed in the grip of a boa constrictor.

Peter was forced to his knees, clutching at his head with both hands. He didn't scream. He didn't scream. He _wouldn't_ scream.

The Dark Lord didn't respect pathetic screaming.

His eyes bulged. His mouth gaped silently. His head wouldn't stop aching.

It seemed to last forever, bending his consciousness into different shapes like a clown might to a balloon. He saw warped memories scrolling through, a process that reminded him of flicking through old photo albums.

The Marauders sat on the best chairs in front of the fireplace. Sirius said something and they laughed and laughed and laughed. This was long before the darkness started to seep in.

The Marauders each lay on their beds in the dormitory. They chatted about school and girls and pranks for the rest of the night and into the morning, not even thinking about sleeping.

The Marauders were by the shadiest tree next to the lake, the waters reflecting the summer sun. They didn't speak, but theirs was a friendship that didn't require speaking.

The Marauders noticed Sirius' distress and did their best to comfort him, let him know that _they were there._

The Marauders noticed Remus' pain and told him they _didn't care what he was._

The Marauders noticed James' stress and took turns _taking the burden off_ if they could.

The Marauders noticed Peter slipping away and did _nothing_.

Nothing for Pete.

" _Oh, cheer up Wormtail,"_ they said when he was sad, and nothing more.

" _Hurry up, Wormtail,"_ they said when he lagged behind, too lost in dark thoughts to walk faster.

" _Come on, Wormy,"_ they said when he wanted to stay in the safety of bed for just one more minute.

They had never even stopped to think that something might be wrong.

Wormtail wasn't even a nice name. Not playful like Padfoot or soft like Moony or cool like Prongs. _Wormtail_ made Peter think of creepy crawlies in dark underground places.

Still, the Dark Lord sieved through his mind. His thought were pressed roughly through the holes, not exactly intact on the other side. He felt disorientated, confused, thinking of memories in which Sirius' face now looked malicious and James' eyes looked dark and Remus' smirk something more than joking.

Every single memory the Dark Lord examined was a time with the Marauders. What was he looking for?

" _We have to find a way to help Remus," Sirius said._

 _Skip. Skip this one._ Peter gently nudged the snake away. Somehow, remarkably, it didn't seem to notice.

Years skimmed in his vision, blurred and twisted. Familiar faces cropped up again and again, familiar places.

Anger, sadness, confusion. His life, from this angle, seemed a whirlpool of pain. If he continued how he had been going, he'd only be sucked down further.

The Darkness was the best path to take. The Darkness had the power to rival any Light.

" _The Order of the Phoenix,"_ Dumbledore said, " _Is a noble organisation founded by myself to defend against Voldemort."_

Peter could almost feel the Dark Lord's laugh. _Nothing can rival me._

Bone-rattling, mind-bending, body-warping pain. He was pulled and twisted and …

And it stopped. The Dark Lord seemed satisfied, seated at his chair at one end of the room.

Peter was on the floor in a sorry heap, every part of him sore and tender.

The silence stretched into every corner, lurking maliciously, encompassing the room like a lethifold on the hunt.

"Well done, Wormtail," the Dark Lord hissed.

All this time, Peter had never considered leaving him. When he saw the Dark Lord, he saw power and acceptance and a future in which the world would look up to him for once. But now, that word, _Wormtail,_ rolling off his pale lips, Peter wanted to curse him into oblivion, for that name was reserved for the Marauders. He didn't care if every single one would hate him after everything he had done; that name was theirs, and did not belong in the mouth of any Dark wizard.

But he pushed it back, wondering idly in another part of his mind whether he would ever be free of the terrible name.

"You have truly been loyal to me. I am sorry about the situation with your friends. Just remember, Wormtail: you will be my right hand. You will be strong. Sacrifices must be made."

 _Sacrifices._ Was that the word? Peter's mind was fighting against itself, half loyal to the Dark Lord, half to the Marauders.

 _Not them_ , the latter half said, _not your friends, Pete. They love you. They are more than collateral damage._

But the other side sat on top. "And my sacrifice will come, My Lord. Of course it will."

* * *

Dirty little rat. That's all he was. Once the power had been and gone, that single moment of triumph, Peter realised he had only gone and doomed himself.

He'd ratted out his only friends, doomed a once-friend, and left another one to off himself. He was alone.

The sewers were dark and damp and his fur was matted with blood and ash and tiny stones that he didn't have the energy to brush off.

His finger (or memory of one) hurt like nothing else, but he could hardly pay attention to that when he realised what a fool he'd been.

And as a mocking _Wormtail_ echoed through his mind again, in that high cold voice, he was reminded of James' incessant warmth and Remus' sly humour and Sirius barking laugh.

Sirius' laugh, which he could hear even now among muggle police sirens and the screaming of bystanders. Sirius, who Peter had never taken a particular shine too, but had been best friends through association. Sirius, who had been loud but occasionally understanding. Innocent Sirius (though he hid it behind the brash arrogance), who Peter had now sent to a place that might as well be his death.

Was that … regret? He regretted blowing up the street, and remembered scuttling through piles of debris, paws red with gore, death stinking the air.

He had closed his eyes when he'd gone past the bodies, too ashamed of himself to do anything else. He'd never really been able to commit, he thought, but what a Death Eater he had made in the end.

It had been the first time Peter had ever killed someone directly. (James and Lily didn't count. Of course they didn't.) Twelve of them _Twelve._ He was a mass murderer, and he was brought back to the days when that was the kind of thing they read in the paper and how the entire school had always lingered in that grim silence for a moment. Evil, Peter told himself. That's what it was. He felt the unexplainable urge to laugh, and immediately wondered if something had gone wrong in his head. Maybe it had. Maybe that's what evil did to you.

Yes. It was something that lay quite near in his mind. He reached out for it, to hold it's ribbon-like essence but it slipped between his fingers. It had been there for years - it was the voice that urged him to do the opposite of reason, the voice that told him to laugh when the world mourned, to cry when the room was jovial. Now, it was dark and wet and cold and ever so gloomy so Peter, as a rat, started to laugh. It sounded like a strange sniffling squeak, harsh and brutal, but Peter supposed that was life nowadays. What was life without that neverending brutality, that fear that you would wake to find the Dark Lord standing over your bedside holding his wand to your head?

He had just wanted to live. He had never wanted to become a killer while doing it, never thought that killing would lead to the deterioration of his thoughts, never thought that could mean such pain.

Damage was inevitable. _Sacrifices must be made._

Sacrifices in blood, in James' blood, spurting out when his head fell to the floor with a _crack_ , covering the lenses of his glasses. In Lily's blood, making her hair that one shade darker. In Sirius' blood as he huddled in the corner of the cell. In Remus' as he spent the rest of his life alone and despairing.

But the Dark Lord didn't deal in blood. He was clean, with curses that left a cold body. No time for blood or screaming or the usual. Was there a point to that sacrifice at all, now that the Dark Lord was dead? Peter should've stayed with his friends after all.

Joining the Dark Lord, betraying all his friends. A mistake. Because now, in the dark, cold sewers with a group of rats who didn't quite understand him, all he wanted was to be safe and dry, preferably by the Potter's fireplace. Preferably with some friends left.

 _But Wormtail, you have made your sacrifice,_ the Dark Lord muttered inside him, _It is far too late._

* * *

 **I babbled a lot in that. Peter's gone a bit doolally, it seems. Too babbly? I got carried away.**


	28. Grave-Dancer (SB)

**GRAVE-DANCER**

 _ **Excerpts from the diary of Sirius Black.**_

 **23rd February 1979**

 _Lord Orion Black_

 _1929-1979_

Curling writing on dark stone. Clean, simple, official. My father all over. There wasn't an epitaph, but Lord Orion Black was a man of few words. To me, anyway. As a member of the Wizengamot - and a good speaker at that - everyone else seemed to expect some sort of elegant phrase. Turns out no-one knew him at all.

Nobody cried either. I was a little shocked at that, and was convinced for a while my mother must've paid someone to mourn him properly, but everyone stood in black robes and black hats and shined black shoes and black umbrellas, looking darkly at a black gravestone with a Black name on it. Silence - cold and cutting. Once again, resembling my father.

The people themselves, in general, weren't emotionally attached to Orion at all. The reason certain people were here was to acknowledge his political achievements, or just for the sake of being seen at such an event, to be seen to grieve such a powerful man. All wore perfectly crafted masks over their expressions; all hid behind status.

It was cold for London, especially for late February, and frost coated the grass, creating small crunching noises when I transferred my weight from one foot to the other. Was anything about my family not cold and unpleasant?

I lingered at the back, reluctant to venture anywhere near my mother, whose expression was of only anger.

I wondered when _she_ would finally die.

I'd been disowned years ago, and was currently fighting against half the people at the funeral (Death Eaters, the lot of them), but I had felt obliged to come and celebrate mourn my own father's death. So there I was, in considerably brighter clothes than everyone else (hidden, thankfully, beneath my cloak, else I might've been noticed), bowing my head reluctantly as the black coffin descended into the ground.

I felt like a great weight had lifted off my shoulders. He was gone. I hadn't spoken to him since I'd eft, of course, but it still felt like a monster that had finally been slain, a dangerous dog put down for good.

Perhaps it was wrong to be relieved at my own father's death but that was it. Relief. I could manage a smile if I so cared.

The beast was gone.

Before anything else could happen or I was dragged into afternoon tea at Grimmauld Place, I walked off, feeling significantly lighter.

* * *

 **6th September 1979**

 _Regulus Black_

 _1961 - 1979_

 _Short was his life, but bright._

Only months before, I had stood metres away looking at my father's grave with something close to nonchalance, but then, in early September, I could hardly see through the tears.

 _Short was his life._ Eighteen years old. Barely of age. Just a year younger than me, but feeling like lifetimes, for all his innocence and softness, and …

But no. Because _bright_ was a word that well described his younger years, but would do nothing to touch the dark years he had spent since about his sixth year. Years, after I had left him alone in a house of snakes, in which he had grown into someone entirely different. I'd only seen him a few times since the change, but I saw his anger and his Darkness, and worst of all, a terrible cold gripping his previously soft heart. Regulus Black became a Death Eater, for the reason that his brother wasn't there to stop him.

His brother. Me.

My fault. I wanted to curl up and cry, to leap into my own grave and wait for the death I deserved so much more than he had. Maybe the grave dirt would fill the gaping brother-shaped hole in my chest.

I hadn't been able to save him. As the older brother, wasn't that my duty? Shouldn't I have stood between him and … and them? Shouldn't I have supported him, snatched him back from the shadows, fought against the Darkness that, without me, had eaten him whole?

'Life's but a walking shadow,' Remus had once told me. Shakespeare, he'd said, as if it was a name I should know. It seemed accurate now. Life wasn't something that could be felt until it was gone. It was something that moved away, that could be killed with the smallest of candles, that would eventually walk away altogether. All too soon.

Have I become a philosopher now? Have I finally cracked?

Thinking back, it seemed like I barely knew him at all. I knew Regulus the child, who would take my word a little too seriously, who would listen to Mother and Father without a second thought, who adored me, but always adored our parents that little bit more. I didn't know Regulus when I left for Hogwarts, the boy who had cried for night on end. I didn't know Regulus, who had let the Darkness get to him. I didn't know Regulus - a very Black Regulus - who had died in the service of Lord Voldemort.

And that was it, wasn't it? The fact that, when he died, he had belonged entirely to evil. That he had forgotten me.

I thought about what I had done to him and wondered if he'd had that right. I had abandoned him in that evil house, the heir to a family of snakes. There was no heir now. The Blacks would die out. _Good riddance._

I looked around for the first time, tearing my eyes away from the grave. It was bright in a way that shouldn't be legal. It was bright that said the dying days of summer, in which everyone enjoyed the sun before it left. It was bright in the way that made the birds sing and the grass look green and the trees sway in a gentle breeze. It was Dark in the way that a boy had died and everything was far too jovial.

I wanted to punch the man who was laughing a few metres away. I wanted to throttle the girl who skipped through the trees. I wanted to kill my mother, who had no right to look sad when she was the one who sent him to his death.

She did look sad. Mother's eyes were rimmed with red, her chin wobbling, back rigid in a way that suggested she was trying too hard to look dignified. She looked very alone, as well. There was no tall man beside her with a hand on her shoulder, no husband for his wife, no father for the mother.

For the first time, I felt like we were in the same boat. All alone now.

* * *

 **1985, cold.**

I didn't even have the opportunity to see the grave. At the time, I thought that was a shame. Then, I just thought it funny. It wasn't funny. Not at all. But I laughed into the night, and even the dementors couldn't stop me, because the thought wasn't happy at all.

In my mind of sharp edges and hairpin turns, I imagined a grave. They were in a row, _Lord Orion, Regulus,_ and finally _Walburga._ They stood within the Black cemetery, tall and proud as they had been in life, Dark and imposing as they surely were in death.

 _Walburga Black_

 _1925 - 1985_

I didn't have the imagination to think of an epitaph. I knew there was one; or course there was, for Walburga Black was one for words in capital letters, loud and loud and loud and loud and

DIRTYING OUR BLOOD, YOU FILTHY SCUM!

The words echoed, like a tennis match in my head, bouncing and bouncing off the walls of my skull, aching and hurting and spinning through a thousand more unpleasant memories of the vile woman.

The dirt over the grave was freshly dug, and soft under my bare feet. Slowly, slowly, I began to dance.

SHAME! SHAME! SHAME TO HAVE SUCH INSOLENCE IN THIS NOBLE HOUSEHOLD!

Joy? No. Something madder than that was compelling me, controlling me like a puppeteer to his marionette. My feet kicked up soil and I kept laughing as I danced on my mother's grave.

Spinning like a motion picture - Remus took us to one of those once - with a million frames whizzing past my eyes.

Dizzying.

Round and round and round and round.

STOP THIS CHILDISHNESS! THERE IS NO SPACE FOR SUCH JUVENILE ACTIONS HERE!

Mother had hired me tutors to teach me to waltz, to foxtrot, but never, ever to dance like this, with flailing limbs and a beating heart, laughing and dancing and driven by wild compulsion.

Groaning, moaning. Faintly feeling the hard, damp floor beneath me just like every time a memory overcame me. Emotions often became too much in this place, aching like a great weight.

But there was nothing. There was nothing but the graves beneath my feet.

It was better to let go.

I would not.

I should be overjoyed by my mother's death, shouldn't I? A woman who had beaten me and hated me. Perhaps if the dementors weren't here I'd have the capacity to be happy, but now there was a gaping emptiness, tearing every wound in my soul wider and wider until the wind passed throught me.

What wind? I was indoors.

The ground was damp stone, and a ceiling hung above me and the graves were gone, my mother, my father, my brother was gone. I was alone, so very alone, without even a grave to dance on anymore. The only howling presence here was the prisoners above, below, and to either side, the sounds echoing and echoing around and around, too loud, too loud, too _loud._

GET OUT! Mother screamed with them. GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.

Again, I couldn't bear to think any more. I laughed and laughed, as I did so often when dealing with these things, until I couldn't hear the screams.

* * *

 **I have too much fun writing an addled mind. I'm kinda creeped out.**

 **P.S. Any ideas for James? (Or anyone, really?)**


	29. Countdown (JP)

He feels nothing. He feels numb. Cold. Submerged in the icy depths of the future.

 _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ..._

Numb, at first. Then he feels empty, as if in the time it has taken for the prophecy to be explained to him, someone has stolen his breath from his lungs, the beat from his heart and the food from his stomach, leaving nothing but a void inside of him to be filled with shock and grief. And oh, does the grief flood in.

Harry. His own son. A baby, just a baby boy. _James'_ baby boy.

A baby destined to either destroy or be destroyed by Lord Voldemort.

 _Born to those who have thrice defied him,_

The prophecy can't be mistaken. Only a handful of people have escaped Voldemort's power, and even less who have now had a baby.

The first time they had refused the Dark Lord, it had been swelteringly hot. The sun had beat down, the world was sweating in their skins, and Voldemort had arrived shrouded in an icy aura. In a way, it had been almost refreshing. He'd tried to hire them. James and Lily had looked at each other, looked back at the cloaked man, and said "no". Simple, clean, defiant. The Dark Lord disapparated.

The second had been entirely more dangerous. A hundred spells of the brightest light whizzed around them as the entire fighting force of the Order was pushed back and back against the bricks of an old Victorian factory. Heat. Light. Yells. The odd scream. All a blur in memory, whittled down to one moment, which stood stark and obvious in James' mind. You-know-who, as people called him with whispered fear, stood directly in front of the young couple, wand raised to them and shooting off wordless spells at them. James and Lily, of course, had returned the fire. " _Give up,"_ he had hissed in a high, cold voice. Lily had growled at him - completely feral, wild with anger. "No." The battle had continued well into the night.

The third time had been a battle again, and Voldemort stood over Lily's broken body. She lay, leg twisted at an odd angle, red hair spilling on the ground like blood, eyes wide, staring up at the Dark Lord. James, across the hall, had roared, starting to fight towards his wife. The feared Dark wizard raised his wand " _Crucio"_ , and Lily had screamed. Heartbreaking, mind-shattering. James had leapt in front of her, and with a yelled curse, blasted the snake-like man away, defying his attack and breaking the Unforgivable Curse. "No," James muttered, choking on his own anger. "No."

They'd done it for Harry, for their son. Now look where it had landed him.

 _born as the seventh month dies ..._

The only other thrice-defying parents are the Longbottoms, kind-hearted souls from a few years above them at Hogwarts. James has always liked them, and feels bad now that he knows that their son was born at the end of July as well.

How terrible they must feel. They are probably feeling exactly how he is: empty. Like the world has left him alone, rushing on forwards while he sits in the dirt, unable to escape the monsters that feed on abandoned things. Now it's only a matter of time.

 _And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ..._

Mark him. Voldemort will seek him out, acknowledge him, _mark_ James' precious child in some terrible way. _KEEP AWAY FROM MY SON_ , he wants to scream, _FAR AWAY!_

Entering this war, all James had wanted was peace. Now his son is to be hunted.

And power? Harry has hardly shown any magic at all. How can a baby have a power the most powerful Dark wizard since Grindelwald doesn't?

 _And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives …_

Die. The word no parent wants to hear. The word _no-one_ wants to hear. Die. Die. Die. Die at the hands of the Dark Lord, who seems to hold so much power of his own that the combined strength of every Light wizard in Europe cannot destroy him and his followers.

What can a baby do when faced with that?

It's selfish, but James wants it to be someone else. Why is it that his child that has to face this?

Because as much as James is an optimist, he doubts baby Harry Potter can win this fight. At that moment, he subconsciously puts his son's life on a countdown.

 _Tick, tick, tick._

* * *

What had been cold became fiery heat. His wild hair burst into flame, covering his head in flames and ash, burning down his world and covering everything good with a relentlessly opaque blanket of smoke.

He's going to explode soon, with this building pressure inside. He's going to combust and burn bright. Bright before falling and falling and ending up by Harry's side again, watching, waiting, for the moment in which his son will die.

die

die

die

(die)

Echoing around the void that has become his mind. A void of fire and oblivion.

He sits by the cradle, staring at his son, whose life is on a timer, ticking, ticking, ticking down and down and down until it strikes and all is lost. ( _Tick, tick, tick._ )

James wonders whether he'll die too, and whether that's necessarily a bad thing.

No. No. He has to live until the world is free. He has to grow old with Lily. With Harry.

Conflict, half his mind battling the rest, a war with no ceasefire, no end until the real war is over.

So when his wife comes through the door and smiles (as if everything is alright, as if their son will grow and they will grow old and die naturally), he can't take it.

"I've got his milk at the right temperature this time," she says, holding up the bottle and still smiling, "Well, I hope so anyway."

He stands and she frowns as him. "James?"

"What is wrong with you?" he asks. He doesn't think it was that loud but Lily takes a step back and she's definitely not smiling anymore. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? OUR SON, OUR SON IS…"

And he realises he cannot finish. The high he had been on, the fire that had burnt in him suddenly flickered out, and he was left in the cold, in the dark, and very very alone. His anger becomes more pain to fill his shell of a soul, and Lily wraps her arms around him.

That's what does it. That's what makes the tears fall. In the comfort of his wife's arms, he sobs, burying his head in her shoulder, letting her support him.

She whispers in his ear. "Our son is going to be a hero, James. He will be beautiful, and brilliant. Harry Potter will grow up and he will be loved."

He sniffled, "But…"

"But nothing. Have hope, James. It's all we have left now."

* * *

They are in the living room together, and soft cream carpet is under his feet as they curl together on the sofa. Lily is smiling and saying something to Harry, who giggles in his babyish way, high and silly and untouched and unfiltered. There is nothing purer.

James stares into the fire, waiting, as usual, for the end. The clock still ticks inside his head, counting down to the fall. ( _Tick, tick, tick_.)

Lily has been worried about him for days, but he had told her there is nothing she can do. There is nothing anyone can do.

The bliss of this day is too much to consider. They have been happy. James even found himself forgetting for a while as he helped Harry on his baby-broom, laughing (something that comes far too rarely nowadays) and talking to Lily about little things like the colour of the cushions and what to have for supper. Something with pumpkin, he'd said. It's Hallowe'en, after all.

Until there's a blast as the door is thrown off its hinges.

He's here. He's here. He's coming through the door and this is it. The clock inside James' mind strikes the end of everything as he spins into the hallway.

He didn't even take his wand.


	30. Sleep No More (ALL)

**Helloooooo! I'm alive. I know I haven't updated for a while so … well, here you go. There's a bit of everyone in this.**

* * *

SLEEP NO MORE

Remus often had nightmares. Every night he was whisked away to the darkest crevices of his own mind, his sight warped, senses magnified, world turned on its head.

 _He walks along the corridor, and everyone turns to look, backing against the walls. Some are scared, others are angry. They know. They know. It's sickening to walk further, hearing only his own footsteps and their whispered hatred towards him. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't belong. His roommates are there too, with the other faceless students, watching him walk alone through the halls of Hogwarts. They sneer, they shake their heads, they walk away._

 _Remus is in the bathroom, curled into himself, and tears drip down his cheeks. Sobs burn in his throat, and the salty drops pour down his face, building around his mouth and dripping off his chin._

 _He's the Wolf, and the tears around his mouth are blood, dripping down his chin, dripping off his claws as he rips into the meat below him. Meat, he tells the part of himself that's capable of thinking. Just meat. But does nameless meat have flyaway brown hair and a kind smile … does most meat have his mother's face? He can't stop. He can't stop himself._

"...Remus?"

 _In a courtroom, in a black chair, hands bound with silver chains that burn and cut and chafe against his skin. "Remus Lupin, werewolf, charged with the murder of the muggle Hope Lupin, on the night of the full moon." No. Spinning, wheeling around, the room shaking with the strength of an earthquake, but the judge is just looking on with a fake smile. "Execution."_

"Wake up, Remus."

Black hair hung in his face from above, tunneling his vision until he found himself looking into a pair of intense grey eyes.

"Are you alright?" Sirius Black asked, "You were moving around … bad dream?"

Remus blinked, glad he hadn't called it a nightmare. 'Bad dream' sounded tamer and simpler and far less terrifying. "I … yes. Bad dream. Did I wake you?"

"No," the other boy said. I was up anyway."

Remus frowned at the bags under his eyes, the slightly wild glint in them, like an animal being chased. "Bad dream?"

Sirius looked at him with alarm for a moment, before giving a small sad smile. "Bad dream."

"Do you want to … to tell me what it was about? They say it helps. Not that I … well." He hardly knew Sirius, so didn't quite know how comforting one eleven-year-old boy should be to another, his tongue tripping over syllables as he tried to collect his wits.

Sirius frowned. "Not really."

"Neither."

They just sat in silence for a minute, the two boys who had met four days before, who had never thought they might be in the same house, never mind friends. In the morning, James Potter found Sirius' bed unoccupied and the two boys curled next to each other in Remus', their nightmares forgotten.

* * *

Sirius, rather than one subject and a hundred dreams dancing around it, often saw the exact same nightmare when he slept. It came so often it burned the backs of his eyelids, followed him whenever he blinked.

 _It starts in his room. His room at Grimmauld Place, dark and unpleasant. There's an eerie silence hanging like a cloud around him, suffocating, muffling, choking silence_ _so thick that his movements felt restricted._

 _He rises from his bed - unable to stop himself - heavy robes swishing at his ankles. Turning round, towards the door, hand on gilded doorknob, and out. The corridor is silent, which would never be the same in real life, not that Sirius can ever tell at the time. The portraits don't speak. They just stare at him blankly, coldly. He represses a shiver._

 _Next he walks into the study, and his father is behind the desk, rising when Sirius enters. His mother follows him in, appearing behind him and closing the door._

" _We are incredibly disappointed in your behaviour, Sirius," says Orion Black._

 _His mother grimaces. "Stupid boy. You should have toed the line when we instructed; now you've gone too far."_

" _I'm sorry, but there is no other way to proceed."_

" _You were a terrible heir anyway."_

" _ **Avada Kedavra**_ _."_

 _Everything goes green._

For moments afterwards, every single time the dream came to him, he wondered if he was dead. Terrible that the dream was, it was worse that he could see the possibilities in it. After all, he was worthless to them, wasn't he? Wasn't he a terrible heir? Didn't all he do cause nothing but trouble?

And worse than that was the fact that he was scared of his own parents. That last year, when the boggart had come out of the briefcase, he had seen his mother with a wand in her hand. That when he returned home, he sped up when walking past his father's office. He wanted to scream; he wanted to cry; he wondered whether they should kill him after all, if a dream could make him feel so pathetic.

But then, as if sensing something was wrong, James would brush aside the curtains. "You alright, mate? I've got jelly slugs if you want any."

* * *

James only started sleeping restlessly in his later years at Hogwarts, when the war started to wage around outside the grounds.

 _The house is a ruin. He walks slowly up the path, kicking aside gravel as he does so. He doesn't want to go in, not really, but he needs to know. He needs_ _to know._

 _The door hangs from one hinge, swinging a little in the light wind. The doorway remains mostly intact, parts of the frame smouldering but otherwise untouched. It is the inside that looks like a bombshell. The wallpaper is blackened, chairs and sofas lying in smoking tatters, piano sunken in with empty keys. The chandelier is on the ground, glass smashed and lying around the room, wax spilt in little puddles. James runs his hand along the wall, feeling grooves from rebounding curses and burn marks from the fire that swept through. Fire, fire. It has reduced everything to ash._

 _He goes upstairs. He has to. He has to. The staircase itself doesn't seem stable but he ignores the creaks and groans until he is at the top floor. Every window in the house has smashed, so a breeze wanders in from outside, drifting through the tattered remains of the curtains. He stops outside his parents' bedroom, where he knows they must be, because it is the room they loved the most._

 _The bed they have slept in together for forty years. The furnishings they did themselves soon after they met. The trinkets that sit haphazardly on the windowsills, bookshelves, chests of drawers. And there they are. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter, of whom all that remain are blackened bones._

He was crying even as he woke up, crying even as the others found him in the morning, hours later, crying and crying and crying because was this war? Was this what was coming?

Remus sat beside him and said something that sounded reassuring. Peter held out a pack of Bertie Bott's. Sirius was just _there_ , a warm hand on his shoulder, rubbing his back, combing through his hair.

They were there. War was coming, but as long as his friends stood beside him, it would be alright.

* * *

Peter's nightmares were different. They didn't have patterns or meanings, sometimes weren't even scenes at all, rather malignant feelings that lasted well into the morning.

 _A shadow. A dark, twisting shadow that grins at him, and beckons, and gives a laugh. A laugh that rings through the abyss, a laugh that scares the other monsters away._

 _(Peter wishes he could scare the monsters away.)_

 _It envelops him only because he lets it, because if it does, the monsters can't get him; they'll have to go through the shadow first._

 _He sees darkness. He feels darkness. He is the darkness. It's inside._

 _He yelps, pushes and pulls and screams, eventually slipping away from the monster, who just winks and moves away. He's free, he's away. Somehow that doesn't make him feel any better._

He woke and wondered why he was so shaken; what had scared him? He had dreamed, he knew, but the details escaped him and he was left grabbing at his mind fruitlessly.

All he remembered was darkness. Terrible, terrible darkness.

He sat up until the others woke. James was first up, of course, grinning at him and passing into the bathroom without a word. Sirius was next, checking the time and flopping back over for another minute of sleep before getting out of bed and just staring into space while his mind tried to wake up. Remus, as usual, had to be woken by James, which earned him a groan and a swat at the face. Apparently, werewolves need all the energy they can get.

Although Peter usually woke between Sirius and Remus, no-one commented on his earliness. No-one asked why he was breathing a little heavier that day. No-one wondered about his jumpiness and worried looks. No-one noticed, no-one cared.

No-one comforted Peter. And that's why he let the shadow get him in the end.

* * *

 **Hmmm. Bit different, wasn't it? Well, I think. Maybe.**

 **Tell me how it went!**


	31. The Dilapidated Man (RL)

**This chapter is for Ponine099, who left some lovely reviews and requested something like this:**

 **THE DILAPIDATED MAN**

Sirius betrayed them. _Sirius_ betrayed them. Sirius _betrayed_ them.

No matter how many times Remus says it, he can't quite get the words around his tongue.

He's in his Yorkshire cottage, autumn wind creeping through the rafters, leaves stacking up outside, the floorboards creaking as he moves. The little sofa is stained with spilt alcohol, the table littered with cigarette stubs, the carpet thick with weeks' worth of litter. Decorated with his despair. He walks as if in a daze, his mind spinning all over the place, doing what it can to avoid painful thoughts. Every so often on these wanderings, he is jogged back into the real world - just for a few agonising seconds - when he steps on a splinter, or suddenly feels dew-soaked grass under his toes.

Sirius betrayed them.

At first, immediately after his life burned to the ground, he went for the firewhiskey. Bottles and bottles had been stacked in his cupboard as a hoard for whenever the Marauders gathered, and Remus had found himself drinking until he didn't have to think anymore. Drinking until his head felt like lead but his mind felt free as a bird, soaring around the room as he lay in a drunken stupor. The drink had helped him forget. But Remus Lupin had never been an alcoholic. It just wasn't for him, and when the firewhiskey ran out, he didn't buy more or start on the wines.

Next, he had started smoking like a chimney. He'd never taken to it at school when Sirius and James had been perched on the balcony with cigarettes in hand. Of course he'd tried it, but never had the rolled paper felt right between his fingers, never had the curling smoke soothed his thoughts. This time, he had felt much the same, but he'd needed _something_ to do with his shaking fingers, something to do with his sobbing mouth. Again, the smoke smothered his thoughts, but soon it cleared as everything did, and he didn't buy another pack of cigarettes.

Now, he lets it get to him. He realises that once he is sober, the thoughts come back worse. He realises that after the cigarette has been reduced to a stub, there's nothing that can stop the tide. So he lets the memories resurface, lets the tears fall, lets himself think:

Sirius betrayed them.

He thought about Sirius a lot. They had been close; they had been brothers. His comforting hand on Remus' shoulder. A quirked lip when he tried not to laugh. Running through the Forbidden Forest in different bodies.

Now? Remus hasn't read the rapidly growing stack of newspapers by the window, but he knows Sirius Black is an Azkaban convict. And he deserves it.

 _HE DESERVES IT,_ his thoughts are shouting.

Those memories - the happiest memories of Remus' life - are a lie. That boy, growing into a man … he had been brilliant. He had been beautiful in everything he did, and he had been a liar. He had worn a deceitful mask, hiding his true intentions …

His intentions. Remus' anger is easy to diffuse, and at the thought of what Sirius had done …

Sirius betrayed them.

Sirius betrayed James and Lily Potter: his 'best friend' and his 'honorary sister'.

It made Remus' heart curl tighter. Made his hands twitch and wish momentarily for a cigarette to clutch on to.

After he'd found out, it was like spilling ink on a photo album - every picture, every memory was stained with an evil undercurrent, the knowledge that Sirius Black becomes a murderer in the end. That he kills James and Lily and Peter.

Poor Peter, who they'd always treated like the youngest sibling, despite the fact he was older than the rest of them by a good few months (that had mattered so much back then.). Peter, who had faced Black, who had been the truest Gryffindor of all while Remus Lupin was doing what?

Nothing. Remus hadn't even known. Hadn't known that-

Sirius betrayed them.

Remus finds himself gasping for air sometimes. He feels like his life was a boat. A tattered boat, but a capable boat nonetheless. Sirius? Sirius had sunk it, and Remus, for days and days, had floundered in the ocean, unsure of which direction to take. Now he was swimming for the shore, keeping his head above water for as long as possible. It was hard.

But he had to keep going. One day, he'd be brave enough to face Harry. Harry, the sole survivor of the Potter family.

 _I was his best friend,_ Remus would say to the boy. _I loved him. Lily, too. I loved both of them,_

He imagined that for a moment before it was taken by the tide along with the other happy thoughts.

Harry Potter, James lookalike with Lily's gleaming eyes, snarls. _Why are they dead then, Remus Lupin? Why are my parents dead and not you?_

Harry's parents are dead because-

Sirius betrayed them.

Sirius betrayed them and now Remus spends full moons without his pack, without Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Sirius betrayed them and now Wormtail and Prongs are dead, as well as countless others that Padfoot got killed by leaking all that information to Lord Voldemort.

Remus has only been through three transformations since it happened, but the first was so awful that he chained himself for the second, and sedated himself for the third. Wolfsbane potion had been discovered recently, but how was any werewolf going to pay for that, never mind a grieving, broken, jobless one like Remus. And all this pain, all this loneliness that he'll have to cope with for the rest of his life because-

Sirius betrayed them.

That's what it always came down to in the end. That terrible, simple fact.

Sirius betrayed them. That scheming _dog_ betrayed James and Lily Potter. He had killed Peter Pettigrew. He had left Remus Lupin alone to fall into disrepair. All alone, and not functioning quite right.

And that's what Remus thinks nearly every day:

 _Why couldn't he kill me too?_

* * *

 **Oh. That's … dark. A different ending to what I thought. Oh well. I think it works okay.**

 **How do you think this one went? It's a bit uneventful. And short.**

 **If you are looking for when Remus** _ **first**_ **found out about the events of October 31st 1981, try reading another of my stories, Frosted Glass, which I might move into this collection sometime in the near future.**


	32. Blinking Out (SB)

**Thanks for spurring me into action, Ponine! I've been quite busy recently, so I'm sorry for the wait. Since you asked for Sirius, here we go…**

 **BLINKING OUT**

Sometimes, Sirius stared out of his window for hours. Beyond the heavy drapes and dark window frame was a whole new world of noise and energy. There were children being children and parents being parents, and _laughter_ and _emotion_ and _light_.

That was what he liked best: the light. From his Islington home, he could just see the twinkling lights of Soho, shining brighter than the stars. Then again, it wasn't as if the stars tried; they were as cold and distant as Sirius' family.

So there he was, yet again, perched on his windowsill, head against the glass, just staring and daydreaming and wondering what this household would be like if children could be children and parents could be parents. Would he skip down the path like that little boy on the corner? Would his mother give in and buy him ice cream if he begged hard enough? Would he laugh? Would he be allowed to walk past the lights?

The lights, so bright, competing with each other to shine the brightest, twirling and twinkling, so exciting, so full of beautiful energy. He wished he could scoop one up in a bottle and put it on his windowsill in the hope it would make Grimmauld Place a little more exciting, a little more joyful.

As if. He had another four years before he could go to Hogwarts. Four stuffy years before freedom. And he would be free. He promised himself that he would have the same energy as the Soho lights.

But for now, he just stared. Maybe the lights would save him one day.

* * *

In Azkaban, it was very, very dark.

No light reached through this window. There was no windowsill to sit on and dream. There was no bustling city just outside to wonder about.

He'd been there for three days, he thinks. The darkness of night is the same as the darkness of the day. Only the moon and stars coming out can tell him when the day is over, and even they are hard to make out through the haze around this cursed place. There's nothing to do but sit and think, and feel yourself fall apart. Think about the biting cold. The darkness.

He thinks: _it is dark and cold._

That was as much as Sirius could manage. His brain was like a swamp, swimming with unpleasant things, and too thick to see through the gloom.

 _It is dark and cold._

It was dark and cold and his soul was escaping and everything was over. Every day, another sliver of life ebbed away, and Sirius was sure he'd be left empty by the end of this week. He'd only just arrived, and the only noise was the screaming from next door and the muttering from across the way.

Always the screaming. As if her heart was being ripped out. As if her body was burning. As if her world had ended. Maybe it had.

Whenever that quieted, which happened when the dementors came past, for the few hours she slept, and when food was distributed, all Sirius could hear was the muttering. From what he could tell, it never ceased. Did that inmate sleep or eat at all? It was mindless babble, random snippets of words punctuated with nonsense.

What had they done? Were they supposed murderers like him? Had they been framed?

He wanted to shout, but he was sure no-one could hear a thing over the racket that surrounded him. Could dementors hear? Would they care?

He'd tried once: "I'M INNOCENT!" He'd yelled. "I'M INNOCENT! I'M INNOCENT AND THEY'RE DEAD!"

And he had burst out crying because the shout wasn't going to bring his mother running with a scolding ready. The shout wouldn't wake James or Remus or Peter. The shout would just echo and echo and echo before fading into nothingness. There was no point here, of anything. It all ended in darkness.

Even the light had lost hope of illuminating this shadow.

* * *

He'd taken up the muttering. And screaming, sometimes, when he felt alive enough. But the muttering helped. He'd thought he was different, but all cats are grey in the dark. Everyone turns out the same in Azkaban.

"My fault. My fault they're dead. All. My. Fault. Peter Pettigrew. Traitorous bastard. Hate him. I hate him, hate him, hate him. Should've killed him. Killed him before he killed them. My fault. All my bloody fault. I'm sorry James, Lily, Harry, Remus. I'm sorry. All my bloody fault."

And occasionally, even the words didn't work. When the dementors forgot to bring the food and water, or when the darkness was more complete than usual, or when Sirius glimpsed the full moon and imagined Remus - lonely, lonely, as lonely as Sirius himself.

"Alone. I'm all alone and they're all dead. Where are you, James? Where are you, Lily? Come on, Remus. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His most unpleasant memories ran on a carousel through his head: stuffy dinners with the candles blown out, crying in the darkness of the midnight dormitory, immediately after running away just wandering the evening streets, finally seeing Soho and experiencing only the pain of what had just occurred.

"It hurts. Everything hurts."

Pain. It was all about pain. And memory, and darkness.

"Where are they? Where did the lights go? My lights. My friends. I'm sorry for what I did. I'm guilty. I'm guilty. I'm so sorry. Help me. Come save me this time. Please, please. It's so dark. Cold and dark."

Definitely darkness. Sometimes Sirius looked out and tried to imagine the stars were his friends. But he couldn't imagine that at all because there was Orion, with that lashing belt, and there was Sirius, his loyal dog. Cold and empty and unhelpful. The stars were nothing compared to the lingering memories of nights on the windowsill.

Because they weren't happy, were they? They were full of yearning and unfulfilled wishes and useless imaginings that only worked to increase his depression.

"I wish … I don't know! LET ME OUT! GET ME OUT! I'M SORRY! I'M SO BLOODY SORRY!"

Sometimes he insulted himself, to see if anger worked. He had used to be so angry, so beautifully angry and he remembered the days when he would just _explode._

"Raving lunatic. Bloody psycho. Broken boy. Broken Black boy. Bloody broken Black boy. You're done, Sirius. It's all over. Give up already. Bloody psycho. Bloody broken Black boy."

He found himself just staring into the darkness as if he would find a way out. As if there was a solution to this problem. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, the light would come if he called. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Where were the lights? Gone. Even the lights had given up on Sirius Black.

* * *

 **Ooh. That was fun.**

 **What did you think?**


	33. Crushed (RL)

**I tried to write something for Pete, but I'm running out of ideas. If you have any suggestions, PLEASE let me know, because Peter has always been a bit of a blank spot for me.**

 **This is angst galore for my lovely reviewers!**

 **CRUSHED**

It was like a scene from a movie. The dying light of the evening filtered through the thin glass window, followed by a cool breath of wind that drifted through the castle. Faint birdsong rung from outside. Remus stood in the little empty classroom, amber eyes lit from within by something broken and wretched. Then the girl, the words, the bouquet.

The bouquet fell to the floor with a muted _whump._ For hours, he had stressed about the ratio of protea to daisy and the slightly wrinkled petals of the wild rose, but he knew that it was beautiful, and he knew it had never mattered anyway.

Nothing had ever mattered, because this was how it all ended.

The bouquet, falling to the floor in slow motion, petals breaking from heads, spilling over the flagstone floor. The flowers, with their beautiful colours, were crushed and broken all at once, stems snapped and petals ripped, felled by four cold syllables from Remus' lips.

"I'm a werewolf."

Three words, the last of which was at fault for destroying everything.

Destroying the silence, the flowers, and his heart.

Dorcas, the recipient of these words, after they had been spoken, after the fall of the bouquet, stared for a moment, mouth open in shock. Together, they stood, the fallen flowers between them, just staring. Dorcas then turned, her mane of brown curls bouncing behind her, and with a stifled sob, she left, and the door slammed closed behind her.

Remus would never forget the way her eyes widened in horror, a single tear escaping to kiss the dark skin of her cheek. In the years they had known each other, he had never - not even once - seen her cry.

"I'm a werewolf," he had said, the words hovering on his tongue, sending a tremor down his throat, and then the statement was gone, lost to the cold castle air and to Dorcas' ears. Three words he wished he could steal back and lock away and not ever have to say again. Three words and his walls crashed down, and the bouquet fell to the ground, and the door slammed, and Remus Lupin wept.

A single portrait on the wall of the room looked at him sadly, then left to find something better to do. A bird took flight from the windowsill, escaping the atmosphere of muffled grief emanating from Remus' shaking figure. Dorcas Meadowes, weeping as hard as he was, fled down the corridors to find solace somewhere far away from her ex-boyfriend, who was, quite literally, a monster.

Monster, werewolf, the menace of Hogwarts, violent beast, the sole inhabitant of the Shrieking Shack, breaking down on his knees in an abandoned classroom.

He knew at some point someone would wonder where he was, and the Marauders Map would give him away, but he wished he could sit there and despair forever because was the outside world any better than this? Rejection after rejection. He would be shunned and beaten over and over, and now that Dorcas knew, she could tell anyone, and the game would be up, and he could never return to Hogwarts again. Never enter wizarding society again. Here, there was no-one to judge and no-one to care and no-one with their bloody useless reassurances. No-one to give him any more hope.

His friends, as always, had been reassuring, which he usually counted himself lucky for, but for now, he loathed the false hope they have given him:

" _She won't care, Rem. Remember her vampire rights campaigns last year?"_

" _Honestly, Moony. Be more trusting - if she really loves you, how could she turn you away?"_

That was what it came down to, he supposed. Whether she really loved him. She'd whispered, not one month ago, as they lay side by side, those beautiful words into his ear, with truth ringing through each one.

 _I love you._

Wrong. She had been wrong. She'd never loved him at all. Never loved the _true_ him. He should have known that from the start.

Regardless, he had carried that false hope with him - the " _I love you"_ and the " _she won't care"_ and the slightly wrinkled bouquet - into the abandoned classroom he had asked her to meet him in, and there had been kissing and small talk and then this. This _I-am-a-werewolf_ business. This heartbreaking truth that everything had been a lie, and that she never cared in the first place.

That was why he wept. The tears were cold and shocking and he wondered why he had ever hoped at all, because of all the rejections in his life, how would this be any different? A Hufflepuff's loyalty could only extend so far. Werewolves' rights were harder to preach than vampires'.

He sobbed aloud as his world shattered, the shards falling through his fingers, slicing into his skin as they did so, leaving incurable wounds in their wake. Yet another tragedy to mar his beastly body. Anything he had thought about acceptance was gone in a heartbeat.

He thought of James and Lily, and their never-ending love, the future they'd have together, the happiness and perfection that would grace their entire lives. He could see Peter too, with a lovely wife, a relationship of smiles and baking biscuits and far too many children. He imagined Sirius with another faceless girl hanging off his arm - it wasn't ideal to have a new 'love' every week, but at least it was _something_. At least they wouldn't be left alone like Remus, jobless and penniless and loveless. He would be like this for the rest of his life.

And there the movie ended, the credits rolling over the final shot:

Remus Lupin, forever alone, weeping over the remains of a crushed bouquet.

* * *

 **Well, Dorcas/Remus was far too happy, and I was never a fan anyway. So I KILLED it.**

 **Reviews are greatly appreciated!**

 **Any ideas for Pete?**

 **(Or James?)**


	34. No Way Back (PP)

**Thanks to Ponine099 for inspiring this. I would welcome any more requests from anyone!**

 **NO WAY BACK**

 _An extract from the diary of Peter Pettigrew, property of the British Ministry of Magic Archives._

 _[The handwriting is measured and round, soft letters forming softer words despite the dark tone of the writing. There is a bloodstain on the right-hand corner of the paper, and a splash where a cup of tea has clearly been spilt across the page. The paper is crumpled, as if the writer had given up on it, then returned to finish.]_

 **11th December 1978**

It's just a cut. It's only a cut.

I feel like I've been fooled. I thought, when I first joined two years ago, that I would have the ultimate protection. I do, in a way. The Death Eaters aren't going to hunt me out and kill me, but they're not exactly accepting.

It's like … I don't know. I had a dream the other night. I was in a boat, tied up to the dock. I undid the rope and pushed myself out, and then just floated. Floated out to sea. There were no oars and no motor, and the water below was crowded with fish that glared at me and nipped at my fingers. No way back to land, I was left to the mercy of the ocean waves. As I woke, I thought: is that how I feel?

Yes. Yes, it is. I was always the best in divination at school, and I can see that this dream is no ordinary vision. My boat is unmoored and floating further and further from the shore.

There is no way back. If you're reading this, I'm either doomed or dead, so hate me or pity me, I don't care. I just want to go back.

I had friends. Friends! How could I leave them? I was so _stupid._ I thought that the Dark Lord would be a greater asset to me than my best friends, and now where has it got me?

I'm making no sense. I'm sorry. I've spent the last half hour staring in the mirror at the little cut on my cheek. Because he struck me. The Dark Lord struck me and then laughed and I'm not sure that I did anything wrong.

I've got other marks, too. I'll take you through them.

The Dark Mark is stark and black against my arm. I loved it once, cherished it and smiled at it and loved it, but now it is a blemish that burns. I feel like my very soul is branded. There is no way to remove it, and I know if it is seen then I am dead. Dead. I would very much not like to die for a while yet.

There's a scar on my leg. I was fighting for the Order. As it is when I fight against my true side, my spells were lacklustre and sloppy. One of my Death Eater colleagues hit me with a nasty _confringo_ and a burn scar remains. Whoever it was, I am sure they knew who I am and where my true loyalties lie. They hit me to spite me because they hate me. They all hate me. I do not - and will never - truly belong.

The lump on my arm is worse. It's on my bicep, about an inch from the elbow. A raised patch, pale lilac in colour and hard to the touch. It's permanent, but even if it wasn't I might have kept it anyway for a reminder. I was fighting as a Death Eater, my mask obscuring my face, against a team of Aurors. And there, in the centre, was James. I'd seen him only the day before, and he looked the same as always - brow furrowed in concentration, eyes alight with energy, teeth blinding white against the brown hue of his skin. James. Fighting against James. I ended up directly in front of him, and I didn't shoot a single spell. I was terrified. Terrified and confused so I stood there like an idiot. Anyway, he jinxed me, and here I am with a permanent reminder, constantly there to tell me that _you are against them now._

And this new cut across my cheek. I'm babbling, I know, and the darkness is making me terrifyingly poetic (they say poets are mad), but I have to get this out. I cannot tell anyone, because I am a filthy traitor (I realise that now and I _hate_ it), so I am writing this on these crumpled pages from the bottom of my wardrobe. I am writing this for the sole reason that no-one will read this until I am long dead, or soon to be.

This cut. Back to the cut. Oh, Merlin, I can't stop thinking about it. I thought, now that I'm on this side, the Dark Lord couldn't hurt me, but here I am and he has hit me. He hit me and it barely hurts but it has affected me far too much. Perhaps I made the wrong decision.

Perhaps I should have stayed with the Marauders. Childhood friends. The first people who ever accepted me … why wasn't I content with that? Because now I am stuck with people who I know are _evil_ and who hate me just for who I was born to and the way I was brought up and the house I was sorted into. _I should have stayed. I should have stayed!_ I am and have always been an idiot, I know, but this has been the worst decision of my life. Darkness was not the right way for me, and I am slipping, my boat sinking further on the water, carried to a dark, dark place.

The water is dark. The waves are ferocious. A storm is on the horizon.

Help me. Please, please help me. I just want to get back to shore. I'll swim if I have to.

I was wrong, I know. I'm raising my hand to my bloody cut and please please please get me out of here. I don't belong … just get me out of here!

 **.**

 **Next chapter is James.**


	35. A Career for a Werewolf (RL)

**Not really sure where I was going with this one? Sorry it's been a while - I'm writing a HUGE Wolfstar AU, and I'm on 40,000 words at the moment!**

 **PLEASE READ: I'm not getting many reviews lately. I hate to moan but 200 people** **have read chapter 34 and I don't have a single review. Not even one! That's just disappointing. 200! At least one of you could bother to give me some feedback?**

 **On a better note, I hope you all enjoy and have a lovely Christmas/Hanukkah/etc., or lovely winter if you don't celebrate.**

* * *

 **A CAREER FOR A WEREWOLF**

"Remus," McGonagall said, and her voice was a sigh. "I'm glad you could find the time today, though you are ten minutes late." A raised eyebrow. A knowing frown. "What happened last week?"

He shrugged.

"Did you … not want to come? Not feel the need to come?"

"Forgot," he said sharply.

"You forgot." The suspicion in her eyes melted into disappointment.

"Yes."

"Tardiness or forgetfulness has never been a problem for you."

He shrugged again, shuffled his feet.

"I think you're scared, Lupin. Look at me! I think you're scared. Hmm?"

He let his amber eyes catch hers for a moment before flitting away, breathing out once.

"I am a Gryffindor, Professor. Why would I be afraid of a careers meeting?"

She frowned and sighed again, shuffling a pile of papers uneasily. "Remus, tell me what happened last week when we were meant to have this meeting."

.

 _Breathe._

In, out. In, out. In, out. He breathed, and every breath only stoked the fire.

The fire. Hot, burning up his neck, reaching towards his face. Sweat sloughed off his forehead.

 _Breathe._

He was burning. He was a furnace. He was dropping towards the deepest pits of Hell.

 _Breathe._

Head in hands, just sitting on the edge of his bed, alone in the dormitory. Red curtains around him, red bedspread beneath him, red carpets. Fire. His mind was aflame.

 _Breathe._

If he looked into a crystal ball, he was sure he'd see nothing but darkness. Just a blank hunk of crystal, smoke swirling at the edges. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing but a bleak wasteland. For what life could a werewolf have?

Hogwarts was safe, for now at least. No-one knew. No-one needed to know. He could learn and sit exams and pretend it was all _for_ something. Pretend his perfect grades would earn him a job, and the job would earn him money, and the money earn him a life worth living.

Never.

 _Breathe._

McGonagall, he supposed, would be waiting. Quill a-tapping on her wooden desk, foot a-swinging below it. That little crease between her brows as she peered at the clock, waiting for the usually organised Remus Lupin to arrive at his first careers meeting.

Career. He scoffed.

 _Breathe._

There was nothing for him in the depths of the crystal ball. He could see that without possession of the Inner Eye. McGonagall could wait as she liked. He would sit and brood.

So he sat, and let the flames devour him.

.

"Mr Lupin?"

He looked up. "I was busy. Must've slipped my mind."

"And you couldn't find me when you realised? Rescheduled the meeting?"

"Sorry. I forgot."

She looked at him, and the clock ticked on the wall to his left, and a portrait on the wall watched with judgemental eyes. "Lupin, I know you. You do not forget. And you are never late."

.

Twas the night before the Full Moon and Remus stretched, raising his arms above his head and feeling the stiff muscles pop in his back. He staggered down the dormitory steps, a flickering pain behind his aching eyes and the old wound on his shoulder giving him hell.

The pull of the moon begged him to go back to the dormitory, to sleep.

"Where're you goin', Remus?" Asked someone by the fire. He can see a slight figure silhouetted against the flames but can't recognise them through the haze that coated his vision.

"Detention," he croaked.

"You look bloody awful."

"Thanks," he spat and limped out of the portrait hole.

He had to practically drag himself down the three corridors to reach Professor McGonagall's office. His legs shook, the muscles in his back were tight, and the headache flared in his temples.

He knocked twice on her door.

"Just in time, Lupin," she answered, and he pushed the door open, lingering for a moment on the threshold before walking in with steps as measured as he could manage. He collapsed in the chair opposite hers with a sigh of relief.

"You look dead on your feet."

"I'm fine, Professor. Just tired."

She raised an eyebrow, as was customary. "Just tired."

"Yes."

"The Full Moon is tomorrow. I shouldn't have issued you a detention today, Remus. You knew." Her eyes pierced into him. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought you'd still want me to come."

"Well, off you go, Lupin. Next time, tell me, alright."

He nodded weakly.

"Hop along to the Hospital Wing then. Come back this time next week when you're healed and you can help me with some essay marking."

"Alright, Professor. I won't be late."

"I know."

.

"Remus, I know what you're thinking. You do have a future and don't you dare say anything otherwise."

He opened his mouth to complain. "Professor-"

"Shut up, Lupin! I don't want your excuses!" She leaned across the desk. "It will be hard. You are clever, you are brave and kind, but you are a werewolf. We can't hide it or stop it or change people's opinions."

"That's exactly why-"

"Shush! Just listen."

He shut his mouth.

"You are going to start looking for jobs now. Ask everywhere. I know some people you can talk to who might help out. Don't you dare give up, Lupin. I've been working hard to find contacts for you since you joined in first year. Don't waste that."

.

Three months later, Remus trudged up to her office again.

"Professor?" He called out when he knocked.

"Come in, Lupin."

He sat.

"I have a proposition for you."

The room, apart from the ever-ticking clock in the corner, was silent. Even the portraits had stopped talking to watch. Remus shifted in his seat, looking warily at the eyes following him from every wall.

"Have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"

* * *

 **I think I just wanted to write about McGonagall.**

 **As ever, tell me what you think (I'm talking to you, the 200 readers who haven't reviewed).**


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